She Belongs To The Sky
Tarnished and wooden is this house,
Old and rickety,
the yard, sodden with black mud that sticks and itches like lice,
dark and smelly,
yet the sky is blue, pale blue,
it is ours, ours, ours.
Strife hath no shade and shame no tinge. Anger is crismon, and green is fun,
but the sky is blue, pale blue,
and it is ours, ours, ours,
We make certain that the constellations are ours. Ours. Ours—Amanda.
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