under the sky.

the wisps in the clouds, and their
ever-changing variations of elegance, they tell me i
am not alone in my desire for
things beautiful and

with the sky as a canvas, he
paints me beautiful pictures all
the day long, and i
feel at home under the sky until i
fly away, o glory


a thousand words.

if the picture my life paints is
only half finished, is it still
worth a thousand words?

and what arrangement might those words
find themselves in?

a comedy or tragedy or an
incoherent stream of thought
an unfinished romance or a half-hearted
yet well-intentioned sermon i preach from my
less-than-entitled pedestal

whatever form they take, i hope they
find themselves beautiful and
honest and