Seems like it’s always about the sky.
The sky above and the sky within.
The one within is an area that doesn’t know words.
A space free of symbols except for the random shape and feel of gasses.
Shades of thinking but no thinking.
The stories on the ground wither away, even if they’re carved in limestone.
This sky punches away trivia and houses bees.
It has no colors and all the colors.
It’s backed by constellations and alternate galaxies.
And that’s just the sky inside.
The sky outside is an unknowable march of creations and re-creations,
of luck and tragedy as sure as patterns of a woven blanket.
It moves slow like a snail, as the planet spins at the speed of sound.
That sky houses the queen of bees and a son-like sun.
It seems to feed the Earth like a child watching over a terrarium.
And one day both skies will fly away into the nothingness from where they came.
