Clouds
I cannot explain why I am caught staring at the clouds.
I cannot ascribe any meaning to their movements, vastness, or embellishments.
Is it the way I picture them?
My mere observation of nothingness,
Painted upon an endless canvas of blue and white.
What truly are the clouds made of?
What grand charade do I find so beautiful?
Do I keep myself engrossed in the beauty my eyes perceive,
And not in what I am expected to see?
What stories do they tell?
Where do they come from, and where are they going?
If I could go up there to touch them,
I’m certain I’d keep going higher until there are no clouds above me.
Then I would wonder—where did they go?
That I kept looking at them, yet failed to notice their disappearance.
If I could touch the skies, perhaps their texture would unveil untold stories.
Then would I be happy, or rather lucky,
To have discovered a truth no one has ever known?
But can I truly touch them?
Perhaps I’d even have the urge to taste them.
Where do my thoughts wander
While gazing deeply into my simple observations of the sky?
Perhaps they drift with its movements—
A dance of adoration and vigor.
Or maybe they lose themselves in the endlessness of a painting
Only the gods were ever meant to understand.
W