Sky Writing

Ironic.

The sky looked furious, 

Spitting odiously on piles of shrunken, dirty snowbanks, 

Those shovellers had incongruously formed to clear a path.

The same sky that kept me grounded,

The same clouds that were like flotation devices 

Drifting in an upward ocean,

Gregariously looking like bleached formations of Einstein or impulsive doodles of imagination, distorted wondrous shapes,

Instead of nefarious ghosts or wormholes leading to the tunnel vision of an alternate sky,

With a thousand stars and a petulant, sovereign moon that would hear my prayers and refuse to leave my side,

Until there would come a brighter, celestial light.