clouds gather in the sky. they flock due to curiosity, the wonder of something to take an interest in.
two birds fight for their prey, a limp, hanging tube of soft green scales. the clouds gather to the birds, spectating, taking watch on the blood and bones. they do not interfere, but they do watch. they always watch.
they follow and search high and low, far and wide, looking for something to group around. something they can comment on silently, their cotton-filled mouths leaving room only for judgemental looks.
one after another, they march on, looking for an event of any sort that can break the mundane routine of floating aimlessly.
the sky may be blue now, but in an hour, it will be orange and the clouds will be bored again. and the sun may be up now, but in an hour, it will be dripping away, drop by molten drop, and the clouds will want entertainment again.
the clouds do not care much for lovely things. they do not care to see the petals of a flower or the gossamer wings of an angel. they much more want the black trail of hatred and the maroon tint of anger that paints the horizon, for the clouds, colorless in themselves, do not wish for purity.
they wish for dirt and grit, dark colors that will be imbued into their cotton, and will never be scrubbed out.
for clouds, though white and perfect they form, some see enough hate to turn from a white castle to a murky, gray elephant, stalking the sky and sucking the beauty out of the sunset, sending flashes of excitement and manic booms of insanity away from them, in hopes that one day, one day far off in the atmosphere, they will be white again.
YOU ARE READING
Poems - because words can be beautiful
Poetrypoems - because words can be beautiful === The more serious and less traditional of a duo of ongoing poetry collections. It's other half is shallow and your simple rhyming book. This one is just a pile of thoughts and emotions on a page, not rhyming...
