The sky is God's canvas Every stroke of wispy clouds tells a story. It tells how the great came from nothing And how the greatest shall come back to nothingness.
On the first section of the mural is painted the bright golden child. When the child crawls, it is happy, sweet and mild. The nature below it is its friend so it plays with the leaves of trees and the smooth complexion of men.
It matures quickly to the middle of the canvas, It is neither happy nor sad, it knows life. It knows it now so it grows quicker, It knows it emanated from nothing, so it is indifferent. It doesn't chase its childish inclinations any longer.
The golden child had become a quivering old thing that hides itself within the pinkish-purple background. It wants to escape repetition but is an eternal slave to it.
Once again, the sky is a mural, God's canvas. It tells stories of indulgence and the consequences of it. Nothing is hidden from depiction within this frame.