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