Whispy whisps of whispering clouds patrol the country side in search of space
Filling every hole and pocket of sunlight
Turning the world a never ending grey
Objects coming to greet me only to rudely leave
Soft, still, quiet I know this is beautiful
Nothing moving, all creation stopped still in sight of this wonder
Dancing slowing in front of my face I can't touch it but I can feel it
It's in my hair and caressing my face
I can smell it fresh, clean, ominous
No escape and somehow not wanting to
I am transported.
some call it clouds, fog,
I call it beauty
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Whispy whisps of whispering clouds patrol the country side in search of space
Filling every hole and pocket of sunlight
Turning the world a never ending grey
Objects coming to greet me only to rudely leave
Soft, still, quiet I know this is beautiful
Nothing moving, all creation stopped still in sight of this wonder
Dancing slowing in front of my face I can't touch it but I can feel it
It's in my hair and caressing my face
I can smell it fresh, clean, ominous
No escape and somehow not wanting to
I am transported.
some call it clouds, fog,
I call it beauty
