Mechanical Sky

I grew up under a sky of machines. My family sings old songs about planets and moons' skies. They tell me that they hope I can one day see the beautiful blue hues of the midday, the Crimson reds of a celestial sunset, and the clouds that flow through the air above like cream through unstirred tea. Those colors, I've been told, were a gift from the gods.
I sometimes think of this when I lay atop my old apartment building in the early morning before the sunlamps fade on, gazing at the machines kilometers overhead. This sky is always moving, always spinning, with colorful pastel lights that fill my view, like a child excitedly drawing on the walls with a new set of markers. I like to study every detail of the Station Core above me as its topography continues to change in a whimsical dance that my family fails to see.
Perhaps the Gods gave us beautiful blue heavens, but I think they would be proud to see what kind of sky we've made for ourselves. Like children, expressing ourselves with