We don't see the sky, not here, not ever.
Even though the world stills
and faith is pure and existing
and we are losing color
and our mothers who are losing hair
fight to keep us alive
when we accept that we might die.
We don't see the sky, not from angry eyes.

We are crazy and beautiful and powerful and irrational
and thoughtless because something else might be
waiting in the nooks and crannies of our towns, or
surrounding cities and we can't see it.
We cannot see it.

We can see the front door and all it's magic,
and the way it opens and closes.
We can see streets, many streets,
that lead somewhere that we cannot see.
So therefore, we don't run past the familiar streets,
because we fear,
what we cannot see.

"Let it be" and we move on
to see the enemy lurking in shadows
with vultures and thieves and our very own mysteries.
And there is beauty out there.
I cannot see it.
But I can taste it and touch it,
if just for a second.
And I can hear it.
It is there.
But we cannot see it.

Now tell me,
can you see it?