Hang - Leave

Nimbus

Clouds are cotton and white
waves are unstable
having hard time to decide
where to flow my sailing boat.

Clouds have been tinted
dark beating its prim
a sign of so called grace
that will drift my boat insane.

Sick and dizzy,
hope become a joke,
proof is the endless horizons
which is better if they are cliffs.
For ones, my boat will fall and lost.

I want to stop,
but the sea doesn't want.
So I let him and sleep.

I slept too much
so sun hits me hard.
White sand and a wealthy mountain
that's where I found myself lying.
Maybe it's true
the black clouds are real blessings.