Clouds and Shadows

I never saw things in the clouds.
I never laid on my back in the grass and pointed out the dragon or the truck or the butterfly.
I only saw clouds. White and thin and distant.
I saw things in the dark.
I saw things in the corners of unfinished basements.
In closets and under beds.
In the woods at night at the edges of the fire light.
Fractured faces, moist mouths.
Grasping hands and twitching tongues.
I saw hungry things when I could not see.
In the blackness of my inside eye.

Imagination is seldom kind and often cruel.