The Man In The Sky

i can’t help but wonder about this man in the sky.
but not the one who sits on the moon,
fishing into the murky depths below,
or some famous astronaut.

this man of mine wasn’t raised under grey skies,
nor does he create them.
he steals through the night,
dribbling paint onto a starry sky.

are the sea of wildfires,
the ragged clouds,
a product,
an outcome,
of furious, hidden pain?

yet he’s able to create billowing castles,
drifting in a lilac morning sky.
while the rays of gold glitter through.

his sketches
leave me starstruck every time.
and i just
can’t help but wonder about this man in the sky.