Old men say the skies and their stars are keys to our past and somtimes can fortell the future.
I see nothing obove me but poluted darkness and dim stars,
all I see is a opaque sky drenched of its very soul.

If Old men are really wise then our past must have been dark as ashes,
and our future... as bleak and grey as sarrow.

I look upon these terrible skies
and wish that for one moment I could erase the darkness
like I wash dirt off a white cloth.
I wish I could place into the skies the colors I so loveingly
draw onto white canvas with my pencils and inks.

My skies would be so blue...
it could make man's heart beat faster and slower at the same time.
And as darkness envoloped my sky stars would glow brighter than the morning sun,
and the moon would dance as she gleamed upon travlers of the night.

Then our pasts could be rewritten with blue ink upon white parchment,
and our future could fly as far as the skies would carry it.


But alas, the dark skies are to high to bend before me.