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
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
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.