Baby Blue
They're the passerbbys of the sky,never in shape nor out of it,high above our heads They're the mills of the sky, Swans on a blue riverbed, And sometimes they turn a convuloluted grey,And sometimes all hail follows. With our umbrellas held high above our heads,who is left to look up and comfort them ? They're the corals of the sky,lull them to find a cotton candy blush, Alas they're the cloaks of the angels,landless birds;never to set foot,never to have ownership.