And the sky births things that would be comforting in death.
Death but a process from one place to another.
Jets like thorns floating across with slight thundering echoes.
But those merely a distraction.
The real births being shades of every color not known in a fashion boutique.
Clouds divided by perfect disorganization.
Rows of marching gray ripple.
What could be scales of a fish or lizard.
A street lamp nearby daring not to look because it can’t.
Only a muddy sort of violet feast for my eyes in one section of the canopy.
Shapes on shapes that will never be seen again.
A gallery or a garden of watchers – gray puffs – turned toward the sun, staring into a projector lamp.
Or turned toward me, seeing a picture show on land.
The house lights come up.
A pale blue fills in across the background canvas.
That lone star in the east brightens before it goes out.
Gray streak smudges show directionless pointers.
And fiery white-orange claws paw toward the rising sun.
Then a brighter white weaves unrelenting pattern across what once was all gray.