Believe What you See

Write a fanciful theory/explanation poem.

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I know the water cycle

makes perfect sense but

it's a cover up for what

really happens - 

clouds are not made of evaporated water.

How mundane.

They are composed of our ancestors,

those hardy folk who went before us,

or pets that have gone to their reward.

Hordes of departed souls form clouds

Proof lies in their shapes - 

a galloping horse over here, 

Aunt Winifred's silhouette looming there,

a ragged line of immigrants trudging 

along the horizon.

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