If all was written up above,
the clouds must carry lots of love.
You’ve got to sing a certain tune
to be placed by the magic moon.
Like little puffs, they float about,
directed towards a certain route.
They float together, split apart,
at times look like a work of art.
The warmest days, they disappear,
the skies are praised for being clear.
At wintertime, it’s like a race,
in pride they take up all the space.
And then there’s spring, they’re quite confused,
sun’s shining while they sing the blues.
The thing is this -they’re so unique,
always so high, in their mystique.
There’s ‘as above’ with ‘so below,’
perhaps like us, it’s all a show.
They do their best, some days are rough,
when feeling good, they strut their stuff.
What if we judged their greyish hue,
when grey was all they ever knew.
During the days we’re bound to pout,
are those when clouds act like a spout.
But, in the chance they carry love,
rain could be all we’re dreaming of
Just like a kiss that’s short or long,
the clouds may choose how much, how strong.
To share the love, they give their all,
they open up and let rain fall.
Maybe the rain’s a way to see,
the clouds are much like you and me.
