Walking On The Sky

Walking on the sky.
Tastes of ice cream pie,
and suncakes of lustrous butter.
Calmness, and stillness.
Cool relaxation
on heaven's shoulder.

Young as the dawn sea,
or the rain soaked hill from an April ant's knee.
Free, and breathing pure oxygen.
Light as a rainbow's skin.
Clean as a new glass eye,
or the blue morning air
that cycles a green fresh leaf by.

Paradise is less soft,
than the sense inside of peace.
Than the gears of liquid pleasure
that tick and fold,
crease, and turn
like a windmill's giant arms
or the gentle palm fronds
made of great peacock feathers.

Serene as a stream,
that babbles on by,
telling me of her day,
and I telling of mine
in the sky.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.