CLOUDS

Clouds

I shall never touch their face,
nor lie upon any lofty pillow
and my heart will not taste their puffy blooms.

Still they are the stairs
my mind still burns to ascend,
to imagine this vale
where I languish
was not the cellar of my life.

Though its airy scent always eludes,
despite the wings that won’t sprout
as plumes of my desires,
inside the eagle dwells,
refusing to be chained
by the cesspool claws,
which don’t cease to snare
regardless of the plot or plan.

As long as there is breath in my day,
pulse to remind I am more than peril flotsam
trapped where horizons I dream
vanish as mirages,
then feathers shall I write upon tomorrow,
because to do otherwise
would be a death
before the grave is opened.