Despair

I have lived my life in clouds, without wings,
unable to see the ground. I am too
heavy for air and my dreams are the
substance of concrete. I move in the
direction of memories that are not
mine and sleep for dreams, jagged
visions that fracture with waking, but
leave something indelible that moves
like mist, musing alternative endings,
visions in sepia of child fantasies.

We do not see clouds move through night
unless they block the moon. I want to be
a night cloud, but I am too heavy.
I am too heavy, living the moment
for memory so there is always
some place to retreat to.
I don’t want
to dissipate
like a
cloud.