the sky is a void tear you've shed,
once on the sheets of a warm lover's bed
it cuts like a scream so wide
or like cold winter's humid grey
sometimes it turns into a feverish yellow,
a soft field of hay; on a steaming summer's day,
and sometimes a blue feeling
with flowers jiggling in the wind
comes then as a child's sullen wish;
a candy, sometimes, he's never tasted
or a speed car on her mother's birthday
the sky is a slow motion premonition
which you can see but seldom can reach
with a thing called sun, rolling by,
night and day,
as rough as salty sand
and round as a peach..

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