Dear dirty cloud,
Where is it that you come from?

Are you logic’s overflowing paper bin,
unwatered and unread to;
fed on fag butts, beer cans,
and scribbles crumpled again and again;
a platter of clammy neurons stewed in old adrenaline?
Are you that half-hungry pull of just the moon upon my head?

Maybe you’re not enough hours spent in beds made
for sleeping - cries unhaunted, sighs undreaming.
Are you a ghost, some lazy gaze at memories?
Are you the voice come to tell me that everything is wrong
or that I’ve sleepwalked too far from somewhere else I could have gone to?

Or are you just the dust pushed unreachable
between forgotten stitching and abandoned seams,
amidst unused pens and lost and untossed pennies -
everyday buried treasure beneath
just an arse, rarely moved, barely moving, sitting stubbornly still for
nothing more than comfort
alone?

Tell me dirty cloud.
Tell me where you come from.