Clouds
Time has buried itself too deep,
it forces eras to push
tall mountains around yet more
towering stacks.
The dung beetle is enslaved
by an unwavering purpose and labor.
A feverish Sisyphus twitches
beneath every grain of substance,
weight is piled upon weight,
but clouds,
those billowing sky-blooms
those ghosts of our perception,
they sketch the lightness of air
upon a higher compass.
Even so, the insubstantial
may take a denser form,
a cresting wave of rain
will thunder down
from its gossamer womb.
The whole harnessed world
must now heave
upon every drop of water
as if it were just one more
boulder to bear.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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