Painted Sky

The sun, a flaming longboat,
sails proudly below the horizon,
leaving nothing in its wake, 
save a painted sky,
forever seared onto my mind's eye,
like an impeccably crafted lie,
told to quell a child's fear.
A silvery falsehood, which worms
and buries itself, a funny little footnote
on the lining of my inner ear,
still there, for none but me to hear:
The nature of humanity.
A deeply routed desire to do good,
not knowing, as perhaps we should,
the line of morality between right and wrong,
as preached in every songbird's song,
and still it is true we would
do good,
as we ought,
were we not always taught
how simple it is to follow a lie. 
But mother nature breathes a sigh
or relief,
in her belief,
in the reality of a painted sky,
for, found in nature does not lie,
and all along, I suppose I knew,
that nature's paintings must be true,
and my mind sighs
with relief,
and belief,
in the existence of morality,
and the reality that good does know contrast,
from evil.