Sometimes the cloud in your mind is so thick that
everybody's advice only seems like lightning rather than a silver lining.
Sometimes the cloud is so thick you end up protecting the
cloud.
Why? Because the cloud has become all you have.
Sunshine on your skin is an ancient parable.
A cool afternoon breeze seems like someone else's dream that
you're not allowed to steal.
Misery is your milk, feeding the hopelessness in your veins
and in your cloud, your supply is endless.
The cloud owns you, it dances you, it replaces your eyes
with a grey space.
Nothing positive that comes in survives in your desert mind.
A trail of dead sunflowers mark a line off into the horizon
back to somewhere you've forgotten.
You stare at it and wonder why it's there.
This cloud is yours.
Its gift, though a vast nothingness, makes you feel like a
king of a thousand cities...wave at your subjects.
The cloud is your life, a magnificent blindfold serving as
your crown.
The lightning strikes fade away and you go to sleep, in its
bosom.
