The Lull

Soft pillowy clouds

floating lazily in a crystal clear sky.

Perfect puffs peacefully

sleeping content in a blue blanket.

But look closer.

Are they clouds

or smoke?

Is there a hint of corrosive air

eating away from the bottom up?

Or has the fire been put out?

Are these the white clouds of defeat?

The symbol of a spiritual flame

now smothered by reality?

Can I sit content in this seemingly safe sky

and pretend

That this is where I’m supposed to be

That these clouds of comfort don’t mean

the death of a dream.

The lull is the most comfortable treacherous place.

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