Flying with the New Songs of the Clouds

Being a minimalist, I used to throw a lot of
things; caught in the frenzy of moment, some
valuables would disappear; then panic, search
in every hill and valley, like the mad woman
in the dream.

The selfie, with the idiotic smile, crumpled and
trashed long ago, haunts, jeers: 
with the original one gone, no way to make another.
lost not only the image but the time also,
acting on impulse,

the echo of the youthhood. Faces suddenly flash,
gloat, for had been tossed off, like the wads of useless
pieces. a pang in the deep; take a deep breath and smile.
They happened for reason, keep them where they 
were, fly off with the new songs of clouds,
and the ghost of failed one will live only in the dream.
Change within. 

©Byung A. Fallgren