Ah, the Skylands!
The airship sails forth smoothly,
Traversing the turbid thunder head
Of a great grey beast lying couthly
Upon the white skylands, the master
Which reins the tempest and rains,
Whose white grounds lack substance
And clear rivers peek at mountain peaks below.
Yes, the skylands, the gazer’s canvas,
Where white illusions are shaped
And candid gaps hint the depth of the fall;
The condensed tear-masses of dreamers.
Ah, but don’t we all wish for wings?
