Frothing pink
or roaring storms.
-may be dark but never naïve-
or twilit, with pointing pinpricks.
Up above us, looking down
she can’t quite smile
nor does she frown.
a tarnished throne, a dusty crown
A brother stabs another
for glinting, polished treasure.
An outcast holds children hostage
for rotting, slimy pleasure.
Must we bisect ourselves into
an ‘us’ and a ‘them’?
Must there be two sides of this fence,
barbed wire scraping ever-higher?
Surrounding but separate,
forced to watch from
her foreigner’s cathedral,
the melancholy Sky sees us
-entirely-
and crystallizes our world.
She moves on to the next.
