Blots

|A Southern Bird With A Quest|

I twist and turn in the southern blue sky and try to detect

A single cloud that floats without a lining 'round the object,

A cursory glimpse forces me to admit that I have failed,

In drawing anything but a blank, and nature has prevailed;

I don't give up, I swallow my hiccups and take to the sky,

Letting the raucous air blow my despair and lift me up high;

I dodge machines and plead I don't be seen, the risk is too much

The city sleeps in serenity below, listless and lush,

I skirt a hundred Big Bens, ten Minars and one iron rod,

Everything I would have worshipped I ignore in disregard,

Oceans of blue are injured by not-too-few bruises of soil,

And I don't see how not one cloud is free of yellow-grey foil,

And then it dawns on me, the enemy is not who I thought,

The tufts of white only reflect the light I want to abort,

It's a façade, a deceptive charade of mistaken crime,

The real brunt of my hunt is borne by a deity divine,

The burning mess, the ball of happiness, forgiver of Sin,

The Sun sits far, smirking at scars; my patience is wearing thin,

And I change wind, and start approaching him, to make him see sense,

Too much positivity isn't pretty, but a pretence

For "Not all clouds in life are underlined by happy motives,

And not every happy day is of a grey cloud supportive;

A world sustains not through the reins of its unambiguity,

It's carried forth by the uncertainty of humanity,

And life is fun, O Sun, due to these inundations alone,

And it's across the pit of confusion that order is sown,

So pray tone down the light of Day, and pray let clouds be just clouds,

Having uttered this plea, I take your leave, for I'm needed South."