Blue Skies as the Crow Cries

Today, the sky was blue.

A cerulean blue,

Like the veins on his skin,

These twain illuminated by rays of golden sunshine.

Here, hands of the woodland stand intertwined,

Amongst the overgrown weeds and white daisies.

He had come about here before.

Most vivid amongst the memories of his,

Was a place all so familiar.

Except a single crow had cried,

Searing said memory stone,

As sorrow took his heart by its sore grip.

That day, the sky was blue, besides.

However immersed in the lone crows’ cry,

The colour of the sky,

Does not adhere to the solitary wishes of man.

It does not care for woe,

Nor does it, love.

Today had been that day.

Vaster was the universe than he,

Vaster was the endless sky than he,

Still, he was vaster than any cry of a crow.

For seeds of hope he holds,

Close to his pained heart.

And now, the blue sky melts.

Golden sunshine casts to the sky,

Liquifying,

As a violet blush seeps through the clouds.

And he sits amongst the whittled trees and wildflowers,

Sowing faith amongst the drowning cries of his crow.

Tomorrow, the sky may be blue.

Or, perhaps, it will induce greying clouds,

Tumble rain over his dark complexion,

Rumble the shouts of the Gods,

But he will not deter,

As all seeds must drink from the rain.