Head in the clouds


Catch the monotone ringing in your ear.
Your head's in the clouds of
the troposphere.
The lines are too small for your words, let them fly.
Maybe they'll revisit the
moving ghosts of time.

Let them find shapes on their own
before your ink bleeds.
Chalkboard filled with white,
embark the heavy tread.
Upward spirals in your head
kept away from reality's fate.
It's okay, it's bound to collapse
anyway. That's why
your hair's so straight.

But sometimes, the lines are
big enough.
Nights as long as you dare,
you'll find it
up there. Beautiful, isn't it?
Strung from the stars, even above
the troposphere.
It's a cacophony but
yours to keep.

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