Clouds float high in the sky.

They are the apple of my eye.


They are so far, yet so near.

They are so solid, yet so clear.

How fast and scattered they can change.

Yet, they are never in dissarange. 


What about them can I not see?

Could it be not my cup of tea?


Clouds give us rain and snow;

They don't expect one 'hello';

They shade us from the burning sun;

Are they appriciated by none?


They are here year after year.

Still, they are not quite clear.


Clouds are different shapes and sizes;

They can't be scared into disquises;

They aren't afraid to be unique;

And if they could talk they wouldn't be afraid to speak. 


One thing I do know is this:

When the clouds move on, they will be missed.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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