Cloud Iii Poem by Mason Maestro

Rolling in with an epileptic form
All smell is lost in this crowd I'm alone
I have it all, yet I'm deprived
From some form of existance I have derived

Somewhere in between Kiev and Batislava
I've lost my own fragrant belloclava
It's been quite some time and now its grown old
The ones around me are scared and I'm cold

With half a chance I'd kick it like a habit
Damage it good for the sake of rising against it
To blow away this cloudy nimbus
And reclaim the scent to inspire my impulse

But it keeps rolling in with an epileptic form
All smell is lost in this crowd all alone