Today the clouds are trying to build
A lighthouse of their own,
Letting their whitened moisture rise
And piling, fluff on fluff, in imitation,
As if to say, “We, too, wish to be a beacon,”
Though, in truth, their tower’s an illusion;
Their only outcome, the rain and storm
That inevitably arise
When we take on too much or try too hard
To be other than ourselves…
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