For the last couple of days, I've witnessed some incredible view of the clear sky in my town. And somehow, on my journey home from school, I was inspired to write a poem, so here it is. :)

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When she ran into the Sky today, he spoke blue.
He spoke blue with a fine tune, enchanting her wholly.
Her little ears could see the blue melody that he spoke.
She stared at him with a twinkle in her eyes,
spying every single gesture of his clouds.
His clouds were his brothers,
and after a while, they were hers, too.
They, too, fascinated her curiosity
of how the existence of hers could seem brighter
once the Sky himself dazzled his dignity.

The Sky didn’t always speak blue.
There were minutes
when he settled to gray himself in a melancholic lingo.
There were seconds
when he stepped into a higher atmosphere,
higher than he was,
not noticing the insignificant amount of potential darkness
that may have prevented him from spellbinding the wide sphere and its settler. But even when he was graying, she only saw the blue.

If there was a solitary simplification of why,
they both might have not known the answer.
He might have been greater than he knew.
She might have been finer than she was aware of.
The Sky would always be the sky,
regardless what shade he decided to be.
Humming the blue, scribbling the gray.
Even dressing as the golden red.
But no single mind could reckon,
whether she’d be herself or the Sun.

(Written on January 25th, 2010)