i dream of skies in abandoned colors
a picture perfect-less; an endeavor
to steal an odd fantasy
i watch them like a 30's movie

i can probably sit here watching
seeing the clouds drift, while
loosening the grip of my hand
until i drop this half-full
glass of bitter rhum

i'm tired of colorful skies
of visions of putrid
they are the modern lies
hiding ancient truths, in which
beholders are dead

I'll just fly a kite
pretend planes aren't invented yet
and imagine i'm the pilot
while hoping that
no one's holding the string

i might grip this glass again
to feel that i really "feel"
i might now drink this rhum
and get drunk
to see the ancient truth.