I've massacred the facts, torn truth into tiny shards
of a dandelion seed floating away into the cloud.
Where it floats as if it were vapor up and away.
Then this becomes a misty truth, a white cloud
so real to me I would like to float with it,
into the blue, into a sunset, into  the night.
And , truth be told, I am that cloud.
I am what I imagine.
The half-truths and full lies.
The blustering wind blows me farther,
so far from where I intended.
I am at it's mercy.