I, alone,
Wandered lonely as a cloud—
Pompous, and by that, I mean
Puffed up within myself.
Light threads itself through me,
And though I am but vapor,
Still, I am.

It’s audacious
To be a self and
To carry the expectations
And the drive of a self—
Yet, what else can I be?
A wisp, a shadow, fleeting,
Or more than I seem?

Rain does not say sorry,
Though it may inconvenience
And dampen spirits.
It falls without regret,
Unmoved by its touch.
For that which is
Intrinsic,
I’ll offer no apology.