Cloud Catcher

Poem I wrote for a project.

We know the highest point our fingers reach,

To be the highest heaven in the sky.

So then, great one, might you perhaps now teach,

To me the strange and puzzling cause of why,

It seems in life, stock still we’re forced to stand,

While high above, the carefree cloud flies on;

While grasping groups of guy-ropes always manned,

Have not a single chance to hold it down.

Be it the slipping stream of boiling steam,

Or be the slithering smog of slimy smoke,

I never seem to reach my constant dream,

Of catching all those clouds in bottle’s choke

Therefore I sit, a lonely man perplex’d,

Still sitting silent, still, and always vexed.