Upon a hill with ecstasy within,
the fool sits staring with a mad old grin.
He lets out a sigh of yesterdays trouble,
casts a waving hand out across the rubble,
and thinks to himself of the first hair on his chin;
He was fifteen, and full of fearful dreams,
spending days on end chasing clouds and the beams.
But the cloud never was within his reach,
and it ****** on his time, like he were blood and it a leach.
Now he sits, watching the skies split at their seams,
and laughs at the cloud, who’s now lost his sparkle.