brain clouds

into each his own.
out of each his isn't.

like breath on the neck
that stings
and shouldn't.

he's sure of himself but not of the date.

and underneath his vigilance,
the spectral glint of nothingness
the delicate flute of the blind singing songs he can't see

as he considers this, a cloud lazes into view.

it floats over his brain but crashes with his skull.
within, the secrets he's been trying to find?

no.
To clash with a cloud,
what little you get!

even so, he feels closer.