Pretty cold bold blue colorless clouds make sounds of whispers
and shivers of shards of crystal glitters quiver down your shirt.
Little brittle icicles trickle down and around the crown of home.
To the ground they roam and own only no known soul or name I've fallen again from my cloud.
Trickling down. Crashing, crushing on impact, in factual pieces of literature where am I mentioned?
Oh yeah, in the populousness suffering from pocketlessness and logiclessness.
Quickly accepting the hospitality of the cold and clammy atmosphere at most,
one that boasts of swirling winds and begins to bring not only a luncheon of summertime breeze
but one that also ends with "please don't blow trees onto my house tonight" from children of three years
and tears flow from the ducts of the little ducks upon realizing the atmosphere DIDN'T listen.
THE WIND PICKS UP ALONG WITH THEIR HOME!
Flown like a kite of the night's trite circumstance.
If only the mother of my nature had listened to my cloud.
If only.
0 Comments