I watch it now,

while it cries

with dark circles

beneath its eyes.

Sometimes, those tears are of joy,

making colors of rainbow,

neither as an illusion nor as decoy;

but for happiness and love to show.

Still, we fly trough its hights

we sent fireworks and rockets

to the stars

Sky's patience can't hold on forewer,

so it shouts on its manner.

Whole world listens then,

this loud voice of thunder.

Sky breaks, and open wound of its

lights up our heads.

This play of violence

doesn't always end in peace.

Its hands, with a brief of second

can burn houses and trees.

My bestfriend must be sky,

so complicated, full of love.

With so much chaos, so much rage,

its darkness and its lights,

are described in my journal's page.

When we're born,

we come from the sky,

and we go back the second we die.

From the begining to an end,

it is on what we all depend.

I think sky is in PMS.