A gust of white cloud
Solely like a vagabond
Pushes itself way up.
It talks to me,
About the victories,
The mnemonic codes
The stories
Of the youth;
Some rattling brevity
Others uncouth.
A listless silver polish
Stares through tranquility
As if deported
Vizard like.
It thinks of me,
As a master of demises,
A shrewd reactor
An orator
Of the masses;
Often worth respect
Then harasses.
The gust of cloud
Never is allowed
To travel in the crowd.
It is SMOKE as I see.
The listless silver polish
Does not seemingly relish
An occurrence of abolish.
It is MIRROR as it sees me.
thoughts... deep but free 