A Gallery of Passing Clouds

These thoughts we frame and title hang now from long defunct dendrites, made branchless by the passé and pointless now all strung-up upon threadbare strings. Ones or twice the hanged are molested by magpies seeking baubles for their nests, yet most go unrobbed and remain as still as death, or they twist in chill uncaring winds. These thoughts shaped to mind-images, collected together in empty galleries, these works nibbled at; edited by blind mice who then hurriedly hide from sight the slipshod carpentry of our words. These portraits of spent passions may still be gazed upon by the idle few, who beyond all reason choose to elect a passing cloud to admire or decry, plucking out that feathery fragment, as if it were the real feature of the faceless and yet untold.