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Zach Johnson

The sky is falling?

The sky finds itself in a quite a bind.
It flickers, flashes, cracks, and moans.
Upset and ruthless, it strikes the mind.
Over a morbid mausoleum of bones.

The sky then finds itself in ignorant bliss.
The benevolent white clouds befriend it.
The soaring sun gives to the sky it's warm, radiant kiss.
The wind brushes the trees, pleasing the sky, swirling leaves of indigo and viridian; most exquisite.

The sky now finds itself incredibly cross.
The sun is departing, but a new entity has began to ascend.
The sky is confused, not knowing whether this is a gain or a loss.
But the stars begin to twinkle, the moon sings it's lunar lullaby, and the sky is assured that day has temporarilly met it's end.

The sky finds itself in sorrow upon morn.
The once friendly white clouds are now dark and cyptic, crying with malaise.
The sky calls to the sun, the sun does not acknowledge the frantic cries of the sky; the sky is forlorn.
But even through this daunting adversity, the sky keeps it's faith, for the sky remembers the sun and it's immaculate rays.

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