I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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There’s something to the colour of the sky

Above the clouds that renders blind the eye

Toward the beauty of which it will find

On its return to life among its kind.

Through stained-glass windows sunlight multiplies,

Cathedral forests strike their wind-blown chimes,

Whose looping incantations softly rise

From stooping branch to constellated skies.

A tempest rising from the spirit’s last

Contorted cry before the cracked ship’s-mast

Is felled beneath the force of nature’s gasp.

My hand holds hard a storm within its grasp.