By RACHELL CHON
Staff Writer
There is a cloud that hovers over your existence;
It fills with every sigh you breathe,
And holds all the sorrows you bring.
When there is a moment of laughter,
It contracts and transforms,
Shining in silky light,
Puffing up into a sky that beams bright.
The raindrops are made of the memories you hold,
The ones that fabricate your emotions,
Whether they are to pressure or uplift your pride,
The raindrops don’t seem to leave your side.
The cloud holds the wind that thrusts your thoughts into epiphany,
Or propels you into obscurity;
It whispers every word you soak in from others,
But can whistle with a deafening roar that only you can hear,
And disclose the truths that you disregarded,
Even though you kept your barrier near.
What is the cloud, you say?
The cloud is like a part of us that has yet to live,
And conveys itself as our conscious,
Our self that can’t speak outside of our own minds;
Or maybe it is a division of us that has yet to die;
It has yet to disappear from a flawed world,
That blemishes our actuality and the ideas we hold.
What is the cloud, you say?
It’s you.