And then one day, I looked up and said, I wanna be like them.
Like those big white pillow puffs from mass bodies of water that roll across the sky like kids up top hills.
Carefree.
Do those clouds care that their short lives will be dragged down by pollution and dirt into sewage drains full of **** and ****?
Or water reservoirs reserved for thirsty plants and cottoned mouths; some desperate for their demise, while others never even noticing?
Or
Do the thunders not resemble their screams and cries?
Is lightening not a contest between the panicked nimbus and stubborn mountain tops or city skyscrapers?
Is a clouds gray not it's sorrow?
Do sun-dogs not smile back?
What can be said about a cloud suspended over grassy plains after a summer storm?
As soft and still as a sleeping baby that wore itself out in a late night tantrum.
Perhaps my musings are misguided.
Are the lives of clouds really that much different?
Perhaps not.