Clouds

They are heretics, these clouds
shrouding the sky in mystery, a thin wisp of frayed sheets
so you could never see, through the white veil
if the sky today is blue or gray

long drawn breaths to fatten lungs, if it's an undefiled blue
revolting short gasps for a polluted fool
hidden behind a blanket of frozen dew
the sky is wearing clouds to an enigmatic hue

raise a finger to touch this meagre cotton
to hold in your hands, store in a jar
invisible threads of ghostly water droplets
sticky with grime and soft as sand
they scamper away into nothing
a gaunt film of presumed pearls, reduced to a vaporous zero

ethereal skin for sky, enveloping absolute truths
liars, con artists
exaggerated evaporations, sometimes transpirations
floating thoughtlessly, perspiring acid
threats of turbulence
non existent wraiths of shadowy reality
shipwrecked in the realm of nowhere and here.