The voluminous shapes in excess
filling the sky with dimension.
I wonder what happens when they touch?
Do they mesh into one and change course,
or are they on their own, just passing through?
The plush pillows are changing, constantly rearranging.
Light is streaming through them now-
leaking out around the edges,
illuminating and defining- lining them with silver,
transforming them into glassy pools; pure reflections in the glow of the sun.
How nice it would be- to have the life of a cloud.
To just hang up there in the pale vastness; to enjoy the view-
watch the cars pass by below,
the birds take flight, and see
the bright city lights.
How easy it must be- to have the life of a cloud.
To never worry about saying the wrong thing
or making the same mistake over and over again.
To be free from fear and feeling, pain and people;
just breeze through the days in the warm, open sky.
But would it ever get old- to have the life of a cloud?
Only able to watch all the action down below.
Would it be worth sacrificing love with the pain,
joy with the sorrow, and hope with the fear?
Is just existing enough- dancing through life with no real purpose or meaning?
I guess the life of a cloud is no life at all.
Isn't it strange that we realize how good something is-
only after we've lost it- or wished it away?
Reality is calling, real adventure is with it-
so take me back down, I don't want to miss it.