• Wayde O'Brien

Clenching Onto a Cloud

Deceiving from a distance–


Illusions of an iceberg,

while the wind recklessly whips me, withering away at my worth.


Appearing as a broad,

absent airport–

At which I wish to refill my will to love.


Hopes of the hovering giant handing out helpings, hiding her hindrances.


Critically constructed criticism is confined to my conscience,

imitating an intuitive ignorance, I infringe on my own instinctive intellect.


Tumbling towards your treeless trails,

my senses simulating a soft, selfless, supportive, scenery of slopes, scented of singed heart and sorrow,

seemingly set to start a new story.


Rewriting the ridiculous rules that render the rope righteous enough to restrict us from reaching each other,

a utopia of true transparency trusted and tailored together by time and tragedy


As I approach, panic displaces my ignorance as the slopes merge into a messy canvas.

Plummeting through thick fog.

Heavy mist like cotton balls crowd my airways,

my clothes drench in air.

A freezing tight grip to my skin.



Grasping for gas in need of solidarity.


Clenching onto a cloud in search of stability.


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