If winds are the spirit of the sky's ocean, the clouds are the texture. Their is easily the most uninhibited dominion of the earth. Nothing in physical shape is too fantastic for them. They can be round as apples or as fine as string, as dense as a jungle, as wispy as a whiff of down, as mild as puddle water or as potent as the belch of a volcano. Some are thunderous anvils formed by violent up drafts from the warm earth. Some are ragged coattails of storms that have passed. Some are stagnant blankets of warm air resting on cold. I have seen clouds in the dawn that looked like a pink Sultan with his pale harem maidens and a yellow slob of eunuch lolling impotent in the background.
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I inhale the sweet breeze that comes from thy mouth, I contemplate thy beauty every day. It’s my desire to hear thy lovely voice like the north wind’s whiff. Love will rejuvenate my limbs. Give me thy hands that hold thy soul, I shall embrace and live by it. Call me by name again, again, forever, and never will it sound without response.
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Gods are fragile things they may be killed by a whiff of science or a dose of common sense.
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Gods are fragile things; they may be killed by a whiff of science or a dose of common sense
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Gods are fragile things; they may be killed by a whiff of science or a dose of common sense.
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