- 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,
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.