I often feel the clouds fog my brain,

does that mean my synapses

are the suspention wires on

the Golden Gate Bridge?

Heaven knows.

 

Makes me feel sick and low and empty,

not empy, full,

full of brick and mortar,

which was blown down long ago,

thanks B.B. Wolf.

 

I'm not a piggy,

I'm a person.

I wave the clouds away with my hand,

the grey sticks like paint,

but doesn't smear,

now we see:

the sky is clear.

 

I breathe in the air,

deep into my lungs,

fill the chest-pockets with freshness,

sweeps out all the dust-bunnies,

and I shout and sing,

I punch the air,

but not out of violence--

out of joy.

 

I see that blue sky,

and I can't help but see it as a blanket,

covering the whole world.

I can just imagine myself jumping up,

and landing in a foreign land.

I see myself exploring vistas,

glens,

rocks,

and bends,

and that's what makes me tick.

 

Those green lands I've never before seen,

are the only thing that makes my smile gleam,

the future's bright,

just have to pass today,

for tomorrow we'll meet the night

in another land to stay.