White eye brow raised

to open an iris of patent leather sky.

The wisp hung over thoughts

tossed as hard I could.

Dark thoughts, big as chestnuts,

became smaller and bluer the higher

they flew.

Mental blocks hewn under sun,

and weighed down by gravity.

So heavy one moment,

and lighter as they ascended.

Black diminished into blue.

They flew.

I’m serious.

They are Cirrus.

Wispy, laid out on a whim.

High brow attitude

absorbing mine.

Altitude lay across thin air

where thoughts can no longer breathe.

Hold my breath of prayers O Lord

until your face turns blue.

Psalm 8, Psalm 19, Isaiah 55,