Clouds

A poem by Bethany N. Bella | ‘bare bones

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I used to think
the smoke stacks
were cloud-makers.

Their white, billowing fumes
looked just like the cottonballs
in the sky.

Could I taste them,
if I could see them?
Could I breathe them in
and pretend I was flying above the rest of the messy world?

It was only later that
I learned these ‘clouds’
are mere imitators of nature’s perfect water cycle.
Chameleons in chemical-warped disguise.

Now, every time I see them
I scarcely breathe
I plug my nostrils and pass by quickly
before I pass out.

Their stream of steam is constant,
like a river,
running overflow overtime,
all the time.

Who made these manmade clouds?
Men who dream of the stars,
or men who think the stars are far enough away we can pollute our way to Heaven?

Hell, it’s Heaven we’re really after.
We have to find some way to make it there in 100 years or less
So let’s give our children less air to breathe
and maybe they’ll join us quicker.

That’s a lesson I didn’t learn in Sunday school,
but I guess it applies to those cloud-makers
in the skies – and those guys in chemical-warped disguise.

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