Condensation, accumulation of water,
To form a cloud.
Light, airy, thin wisps between your fingers.
And yet they are far away, almost a mere memory in the sky.
Shapes and colors like a child's imagination,
The foundation of life.
Who tells what clouds get to be?
They don't see that they form themselves,
Like us, with shelves of memories,
That molded them like my memories,
Those memories are not the fluffy white clouds that you like to see.
No, instead they are the overcondensation
Water droplets threatening to spill
With its brother lightning
And cousin thunder
The frustrating friction of life.