Life on the Cloud

My feet are on the soft surface.
As each foot makes another step,
the soft surface falls a bit sinking
sinking and making a hole.
It's snow. Wait no, it's a cloud.

I keep taking steps, through the white
the wind is crisp, fresh and clean
Another hole. It's uncertain what areas
Of the cloud are thick enough to hold,
But still, that's all part of the game.

The game? You ask, simply, but of course,
It's just the way things go.
At least on the clouds. One step. Safe
Two step. Fall. Three step. Safe. Four step. Safe.

Suddenly both feet fall, and I start falling,
Sinking faster through the wind,
The wind slapping, ouch! Wait no,
Was that an ace of spades?

Cards! But this is no drinking game,
Cacophonous, the cards are swirling
All around me, the noise,
Of paper at odds with the wind.

I'm taken back to the arena. Snap.
It's your usual fencing duel. Except

This time, I'm holding a set of cards.
It's a pretty good set, I'm proud of them.
I'm ready to enter.

No. Wait. I know him. Is this a joke?
The eyes. His smile. It's definitely him.
It won't phase me. It's fencing. This is my thing. Right?
But he doesn't have cards. What's going on?

That's okay this should be easier
But he just stands there. Arms crossed.
With that stupid smirk. Gently, smoothly,
walks over to me and my cards and pulls.

One of them. Trying to lick back the paper
With his fingers to see the precious numbers.
But he fails. The numbers are mine.
What is with that dumb smile?

But he doesn't stop. Hey Rebecca,
Are you sure I can't just take a peak?
Sorry. No. These are my cards. I'm tired
of your games. It's obvious.

These are my cards. Why does he want them?
If he really wanted them, he wouldn't pull.
And just like that:
as always, a realization:

He only pulls because he still cares.
The pushing, pulling, asking, probing
All with that stupid stupid smirk,
Only mean that behind the scruff and smile
Is just a petty guilty little boy.

Maybe the girl, who scribbled words
In her notebook, through tearing eyes,
Mumble Jumble, Vertigo, Yellow Words.
All the woes, left her all together, empty.

You would think. But now, she's published.
The words that melted the paper with her tears will
warm others within. Exhale. They do say
that the best art comes from pain.

Sometimes I wonder why we all think that
life is supposed to be good. It's just not.
That's the game. The obstacles are just opportunities.
Reminders of strength.

So he smirks.
So he pulls.
It's just chatter now.

This time, I'll hold my cards tight.
His stupid smirk. His glasses.
He still stands there, watching me try. Laughing.
His face melts. I look again. Blink.

But he's no longer there.
I'm on the cloud again.
What's the point of living in reality
when we can live in a dream?


I guess that's just my take on it.