The idea of "correct poetry" has always infuriated me. Who has ego enough to define art in a strict parameter, to define poetry and objective prose as functionally distinct? When you gaze at an earthly sky, look at an object weighing like a sea in the sky, and do not feel the pain, joy, and dread of sharing a world with such beings. This leaves one with a bitter taste, or me at least, left many a night spent pondering and scrawling mine ponders, and one such ponder I now transcribe. Bon Appétit.
The flippancy of clouds has always puzzled me. Prescribing to the animist philosophies of early man (of course, before such things were seen as philosophies at all), each cloud has a soul and possesses limited cognizance and anatomy separate from the four winds.
This idea is supported by the observation of such phenomena that we prescribe as a cloud.
They move through the sky, carving empty air behind them and bound together, particles of moisture and dust bound by static and the natural law of attraction.
When the weight becomes too much to bear, the pain of carrying a million pounds fights the fabric of being like a hound in a canvas sack; it rips open, and the cloud sheds its labored tears below. When they shout, thunder. When they scream, lightning.
But I will never forget what the thought I thought when I first saw one of these cotton monstrosities;
"When the cold eats away, and when the wind blows a way, then a cloud may decide, to take a ride, and you may then never find it."
And woe, for truer truth I have never a' spoken.