From overhead's cerulean, clear skies.
Too dark, too open seem the sky and sun,
as if they trick us into joy with lies.
I dream of ranks of soldiers, cold and grim
They're coming, preaching what I can't condone
I hear their screaming voices from within—
They're helpless, hopeless, almost like my own.
There are no clouds that can this spell deter
From these deserted swings I see our fate
The church bells ring but no one seems to stir
From catatonic poses based in hate.
I wish for rain, for fog and mist and gray;
Clouds keep the sight of army planes away.