Five, Five, Five…

A translucent cloud,
only barely there,
neither thick nor proud
floating in night air,
as a frayed grayed dove
in want of sun’s rays
while drifting above,
born of misty haze.
Thin, ghostly stratus,
do you think desire
something your status
might survive, that fire
which burns with a stare
that blinds and dissolves,
an unrivaled glare
round which earth revolves?
Stay true to the moon,
phantom of the night,
or fade all too soon
like ghosts at dawn’s light.

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