I'm composing a saga for animate clouds
Till this mere a bondage is left to reword
Till as if to be blown throughout the poles
To the slumbers and stairs of the pruinose Geist.
Oh, you chasm! Feel scattered on oblongs of clots
It is flat via smalt. (Zero gravity does)
And the nous is giving a servicing bow
Naving skreened by hand from the glorious sun.
Oh, you random pennation! The octave supreme
When its more to inbreath-- more the one to remove
Like the air's infraamed with this ultimate blue
While enforcing your space through a tightness of ribs.
Oh, you gulf-dream of soupsuds! Hard handed a glint
Where the flocculus lifting a sorrow of steam
There's a gap in a levity dear to bleach
As exhaling it lenghtways a deep mazarine...
Does it looks like a Whatman until it is burnt
In a fire-place of sunset to plumose scraps
Where a maroon of its faint crumbles all but a chalk
Varying far ere night its elusive texthand.