Sky

Were you to ask someone
To draw the sky
Most, very much so,
Would gladly paint the background
Blue
Clouds light, white, immaculate
Perhaps some birds, free
Here and there (isn't it so?)
And oh, lest we forget,
The sun,
Bright, shining, radiant
Great white beams emanating from its core,
Flourishing the life of millions.

Perhaps it would be mildly annoying
Inconvenient
Or even disturbing,
To imagine that someone
Living on the same planet
Would draw the sky as a simple, tiny window
Or, a mere ceiling
Or, a dying bulb
Or, even, green
Of hails made of lead and sulphur and chlorine
Mildly disturbing, yet glaringly true.

Were you to ask me
To draw the sky
It would be black
The most lethargic of the colours
The most ominous, the most fateful
Clouds would not be white, but crimson
With a tint of bloodshed orange
Threatening to release its fury
Where is the sun? There is none
In this forever idle, stormy, turbulent
Land of nightmares
Of inadequacy, of macabre melancholy
Of irrationality and undying suffering.

But once
Once in a while
A white light flashes through
A burning meteor, expending its life
Burning away its very body
To give the final vestige of hope
In this ridiculous sky.
So tender, so small, yet firmly existing
As if there is something
Some
Goal
To reach for.

So clutch tight to this fleeting star, I say
Wish eternally to the ephemeral meteor
Resonate with its death wish
And raise your chalice
To the fantastical, pure sky
Watch, wish and hope until it shrinks
To infinity.