The sky is a constant, as we toil away
in our contracts of love, bound as slaves.
It’s a debt to be paid, we fulfill obligations
allay age-old guilts or dutifully obey,
with the wool securely over our eyes.
As one speaks of pure intent through perfect blooms,
they’ve already been plucked from their natural state of bliss,
imbued with a false purpose,
and surely they begin to wilt and fade.
Bargains are struck which are ofttimes unspoken
resentment builds when those contracts are broken
with the personal lawsuits and battles waged
upon breaches of faith schemes are hatched and then staged
and meanwhile arises a crescendo of mistrust
and a dark cloud obscures the azure sky.
Each pays in turn for imagined transgressions
or seeks a quick salve for the heart’s rejection
throughout all of time from the one to the other
while in the disguise of love.
If I could end this mass charade right now
I would give you the sky with no strings attached
not of puppets played nor plots imagined
but only the azure sky.
Where the birds are free in their state of bliss
descending with messages from lovers delivered
and word from lost ones forever reunited.
A lone eagle over a still blue lake
gazes down at his perfect reflection
he’s startled to see it, his soul’s mirror image
gazing back serenely in comfort
from water that stands apart from all time
under an azure sky.