The sky was wet with
dreams, noone telling it what to think, and in it's own it right quite confused. And it's
traveled around the world, azure blue to crimson grey. Traveled to lost happy places before
it let it rain.
And in the rain it
lost itself, pride turning to myopic things. It asked around and found itself forgotten, and
in obscurity twas free. For half a year of twisty seasons the sky was soft without good reason
to come back again.
So secretly,
beneath the sun,
the little stormy island held it's tongue.
And held it's breath,
and without the sky,
became quite desolate and dry.
What claim did it have to air
or rain?
but it still missed them all the same.
And earth was never what it was.
The sky was gone,
The sky was gone.
