The Nomenclature Of Clouds

The nomenclature of clouds is redundant. How futile to name something, that wells up like the exhaust Of a giant earth's breathing; each one as different as the day itself; As a snowflake, or a memory completely surrounded by a hurricane; It comes and goes, irretrievably lost, as soon as it's found, From where you can't see, to where you can never go. It goes as quickly as a band of wild horses, sweeping across the horizon Toward distant lands, only dreamed of once in a bottomless sleep, In the world of swirling mists and uncounted time. How surreal to name a cloud, in the world in which Only the most concrete places, are ever recognized as landmarks. The places of soul's journey, should remain watery and indistinct As waves, seen from the railing of a ghost ship As it's passing a gutted lighthouse, with a phantom light within, which beckons Only when the wave releases it's skeletal hold, upon the bow, And the boat rises toward heaven, like an unanchored harbor, And before disappearing, as it sinks down again, like an undiscovered wreck. Or; when you've heard the far off cry of an invisible heartsick seagull, And when only closed eyes can know the way better, Than any reef-encrusted treasure map.