The sky

The sky moved,
Or was it me.
Broken and bruised,
Adrift on this sea.

I see you,
Something true.
And you see me,
A rare gift, indeed.

Fantasy, finality.
Brutality, reality.
Turn the page,
We’ll burn backstage.

The time has come,
Can you hear the drum?
You and I,
Like whiskey and rye.

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