The stronger evidence of a cloud which carried him
		into the paper-strewn lot of a magnified dream
		no longer his own, no longer here, no longer alive,
		as it was when it used to entrap him. As it was,
		it was no longer a cloud that carried him.
		He, on a string of his dream, carried it,
		and no longer to a place of exact destination
		where purpose bloomed darkly, its petals lips 
		to feed the desire of morning air, the final air
		in the final dream, where he himself was the cloud.
		Or, he was what he was. The desireless shadow,
		proudly calm, proudly insouciant
		at desire's death. He dropped it off like a coat,
		this second skin, this disease, this signifier
		of the serene and the feverish, 
		the true and the false--the prevailing guile.
		His confusion resolved and his purpose realized:
		he in the sky, he sans his cloud, he sans his human shell.