Vapor Trails

I can’t believe I’m here,
watching the vapor trails of clouds whisping by my face.
I could touch them if I chose,
 and I’d live in this place.

My life, my friends, my sense of being,
my passion and my prose,
will change, will wither, die or grow
based on the way this goes.

The pressure point is palpable,
it’s right between my eyes.
There’s dreams of women, wealth and cars,
all to tantalize.

But alternatives abound to me,
martyr, sinner, saint.
Should I become apocalypse,
or stay a stagnate quaint?

MY god, MY face, MY pen, MY mouth,
MY breath, MY brains, MY brawn, my fate …
My existential quandary question,
On this all predicate.

Among the clouds is luxury,
security and peace.
While in the dirt lies toil and death,
and merciless decease.

But where does lie immortal name,
and where lies nameless love?
 In the dirt with common man?
 Or in the Clouds above?