Where the clouds are made of fairer shades (Our house, in the middle of the sky)

 There are floating streets whose inhabitants are dark
like the nature of the sky we won't call home
call a nugget of truth a turd
but never call a holding pen a home

that should be more than cattle prods behind tampered locks
I've heard it's a place where doors open easily
even without stolen backwards glances
and the stringy clouds of stretched horizons never snap

like cheap laces between meaty hands
we'll pull at the ties that bind us
until something gives
masticated morality or illicit ingenuity

pens in storied heights don't write happy endings
but every tale I've been told has sold me cheap dreams
of towers built on mounds of gold and luck favouring the bold
so I'll keep digging holes, until the last one fills around me