cumulus.

      When my thoughts are clouded, I will be turned to hear the whispers of indecision.  Are they whispers of evil?  No.  They delay the good until such a time that the good cannot and will not be done.  Defiance is forced against my teeth, yet it is not defiance, but confidence.  Confidence that my indecision, my clouds, will cover the light shining the way until too late.

      Too late, and I have fallen into the great swamp of my own folly.  O, injurious murder is my sin: I wish.  Instead, the swamp forms from the smallest of mistakes made by my own white lies, so many white lies that the palette is no longer white, but grey, black.  Burnt out.

      Defiance clashes with defiance.  My body is weak.  How will I find peace?  How will I run from the sorrow of my swamp, my lies?

      There is a light shining in the dark.  I will never reach this light.  Until I blow away the clouds.  Until I blow away the cobwebs.

      One Breath.