A blue sky, no clouds to be seen.
Like a clear canvas waiting to be painted.
I only hear the roar, the jets so tiny.
Drawing a path, a white streak on a blue sky.
The pattern left is sometimes unique,
Some will say it spoils such a blue sky.
Others will admire the freestyle art,
Of unknown artist to those below.
We start off life, as clear as a blue sky.
No markings, no stains, all innocence.
We make our path, we draw on our canvas.
Just like that white streak, sometimes unique.
Mistakes made, some can be erased.
Others are permanent blemishes.
By life’s end, our canvas is fully painted.
With vigour of youth to diminishing of age.
By C.E. Pereira
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