Clouds, like unmade beds
left empty after sleepless nights,
the sheets have holes
through which shine
thin lights
weak and tired,
like eyes refusing the day…
holes in the clouds look at me,
the eyes of a thousand people
passing by…
some dead as swamps,
or lazy like rivers,
others are sparks
in a dying fire…
A silent greeting maybe
and they sink back into
the grey mist
of their thoughts,
grey like the sky,
torn into blue holes,
small and timid like
flecks of hope…
Up there on that timeless pasture,
among those flocks of fluffy sheep
driven by blue collies without pity,
racing with the wind,
he opens holes in the clouds
and bangs them shut like doors,
for the restless wanderer
lost in the grey mist,
to pass through once more,
damned to wander forever,
from anywhere
to nowhere…

Sybille(Sydney)Krivenko GISC2052924 2007