Sky High

Windshield wipers, the tears from the sky. It pounces the window, and keeps me alive. The lane passes under, trembling and flashes, the roars of thunder, awakes by the minute and soon arrives. As a kid the noise taunts, then you wonder, it's a haunt, no, Zeus strikes, we go under. As grown as can be, the sound reverberates, stampede, crackling in confidence, however which way you perceive. The vast open sky is the best place to be, cuz here on the ground, you look no further than the crete, con that is, for those who can see. From alley ways to the forest open trees, big difference is what you feel underneath your feet. The grimey and slimey, dank, dark, and shiny...piss. Open air, no fools who scare, from gravel to the cliff. The sun dances around yourself, among the others, the ultra-violet melts...your eyes. If you look too hard, the blind folks will feel your felt. You travel faster than the speed of light, in your metal frames, it keeps you right...unless. You pack your comfy shoes, stroll out and sing the blues, run, hike, sprint one hunned, pause, breathe, do it till you've done it. Feel like a champ, everyday and gun-it. Urban, rural, suburbs and murals. No need for paintings, your eyes are often plural... Capture it with memory or use a gadget, canvas, other means plus your rule.