he sees ghosts and speaks to clouds while sneering menacingly at people and dogs church bells nearby ring out praise and guilt clouds knit together, breezes circle salvation walks backwards sometimes retrieving the innocent while rejecting the poor
eyes of clouds watched over me in faintest of darkness or summer shoreline, on equal or unequal ground, beneath the place I stand, wondering upward where currents swirl unnoticed above me as I glance into a vapor face passing without voice like the dreams I know in the invisible
meditation under clouds, eyes reaching upward looking for an angel and a miracle in the breeze, whispering a birthday wish while waiting for its release, and chances are, the belief will settle within, like a candle protected from winds of change and seasons yet
for the wish tomorrow, softly released as day shelters behind night approaching, pushing curtains aside exposing warm spaces of patience and belief within a cloud body of words held tightly within the secret soul
seclusion is my inspiration of alone unbroken time, a silent bloom to create, construct and listen to winds and waves while considering the advice from clouds under a galaxy of private space with incense of thought filling corners, walking over crossroads
words on stone as angels pass over where clouds hold tight the soul of belief as winds push back and then forward to the promise at the highest point where air is fresh like cool water filling your spaces washing onto your shoreline the best of all parts
on the other side of time, the area between is crowded with shadows, broken promises and the right to be understood as changes occur like the flow of clouds, nameless, but important, almost enough to break into the blues like reliving the history of each year, after the first breath of morning as day passes … More ALMOST
the last clouds of day are rooms over the ocean, curtains of moisture reabsorbed, exposing a a carpet of stars, glistening sweetness nourished by angels as we trespass beneath heaven
satin breezes like angel wings glide over the soul of water a cloud of mist, rarefied air, drifts within classic circles of style creating a message within motion, a language spoken without words
faced into seasons swept to the edges where clouds form at tree tops, lazily, like an afternoon nap as cotton curtains stir to the gift of breezes and bright shades of white reflect off the ocean, bowing to blue skies
Roger Singer 