CLOUDS AND CLOUDS.  

Clouds, and Clouds, I like the passing of the Clouds,
Wisps of white Cotton are they,
Scattered, and blown by winds four, that howl.

I lift my head toward the dark awesome skies above,
To the Clouds, mine eyes do stare,
With hypnotic Eye,
There I do see tones of a hundred thousand forms,
Marching, marching , across the Skies.

Perhaps they are the Souls of Devils and Demons,
Spirited away forever and a day,
In time that have been long since forgotten
By Mankind in his wisdom.

And the Autumnal mists that come,
Are they our tears of regret,
For transgressions once committed,
Against the God of Creation.