the biting wind matched the sky -
a purest blue which blanketed
even the furthest horizons.
clouds wound and tendriled down,
grasping at the ground
as if they were attempting to take the very trees,
people, and livestock up into the sky -
perhaps through the boredom of only ever
having other cloud things to play with.
each day (the cloud things) would evolve, devolve,
wind carried across the barren blue,
sometimes peaking the vast blackness, dotted
with unfathomable light, yet
forever removed from such distant sights.
doomed to forever inspire, continuously painted
with a psychedelic display of hues on suns desire
existing in such a lonely place,
so far above as to only see a patchwork quilt – nothing more,
too far below to escape and drift amongst the stars,
a sterile prison – forever inescapable. forever caught.
Christopher Withers
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clouds-28/
