The skies didn't cry,
This wasn't crying.
This was bawling.
This was screams of anguish
And flashes of rage.
This was the earth reminding us
That we are small.
That our sorrows are nothing
Compared to those of the clouds,
Who are pushed around by the wind
Never able to stand on their own.
That our rage is nothing
Compared to the sun,
Burning and destroying itself
In its pursuit for the moon.
That our responsibilities are nothing
Compared to those of the stars,
To whom we we rely on
To make our dreams come true.
This was the sky telling us its story,
Etching it into the earth,
Making us listen.
YOU ARE READING
Inkstained
PoesíaThere was a new girl on the bus. Everyday she sat by herself in the left emergency door seat, and didn't say a word, instead she wrote. As the bus shook and the tires squeaked, she wrote. As the people filed out and the chatter faded, she wrote. Un...
