They say clouds are made from dreams.

But I don’t think that’s true.

Colored white like lies and

Covering a sky so blue?

 

They never stay long,

Always on the go.

They bring horrid rain, hail,

Misery, and cold snow.

 

What kind of dream

Would such a tragedy be?

I think the sky is what holds

The dreams of you and me.

 

The sky is always blue,

Unless it’s the end of day,

Then it explodes into color, 

Like paint on a blank array.

 

Even if it’s dark,

It lets the stars glow and shine.

It’s a never-ending expanse,

That withstood the weight of time.

 

Head above the clouds?

So that head can see the sky.

Even our old proverbs,

Tell us the clouds lie.

 

We made a sky,

Of hopes and dreams.

Clouds are just doubts

Of what they all mean.