Chapter 8:

(Poem) Islands in the Sky

Stray Stories and Purposeless Poetry


Sometimes, when I look outside,
my eyes rest on the clouds in the sky.
They remind me of islands
with their puffy, white forms
stained like splotches on a canvas of light blue.

If I were to travel and fly so high
into their ports made of clouds and bright sky,
I would see their city stretch across the horizon
with silver-lined structures and soft, pillowy light.
I would see a colorless capital before me
filled with hopes of none who had strife.
It would be a metropolitan dream.

If I were to imagine the inhabitants there,
they would be so graciously free.
Billowing past without much care, the residents
of these serene cotton candy isles
would float by without dispute—no quarrels
or disunity. No problems with relations.
Because I only feel calmness
from the floating islands in the sky.
I only feel quiet
as if in deep slumber. 

If only I could be
an inhabitant of the sky
where there are no problems, no struggles,
no quiet quite like mine.
If only I could drift off
into this fluffy island paradise, I could finally leave
this bitter silence behind
where the only paradise
is
my mind.