I thought I’d write
while the sun had hung,
when we called them days,
not years far flung,
to you.
The sky’s still blue.
I think sometimes,
when wisps of embers leapt outside
and amber lights flooded the streets,
‘till the Wrath of Sons, aloud, had cried,
“they’re right, it’s true”:
The sky’s still blue.
How have you been? Let’s finish that dance.
I picked one out, though you hated it then,
The slow rocking synth, and a worn out bass.
That ashy voice will sing again,
without further ado.
“The sky’s still blue.”
It’s all but dimmer now,
It’s all but whispers now,
The shutters flicker and winds had wrapped their ghoulish hands upon the hard lead door, but
no one answer, nor should
we do.
The sky’s still blue.
I’d hold on more,
but remnants knock,
of a time ungrown, of depths unknown,
that hid from the light ‘till their corpses rocked.
I’ll see you soon.
It had just past noon.
