Skies

Spoken softly to the skies,
the word is vacant to the wise,
escorted by some gentle breeze,
it rises from the tallest trees,
floating up among the mist,
for once removed it can exist.
In this place beyond the real,
it does not boast or cry or feel.
It cannot be or be not there,
if one, the other, to be fair.
A place beyond all sin or fault.
It thrives until a rain of salt.
Looking back, one might despise,
speaking softly to the skies.