We Sit on Clouds like Monkey Kings

We sit on clouds like Monkey Kings
Constantly flying as our gums flap flap
Traveling over frothy seas, smoke rises from the whitecaps
Adding mass to our already obese zephyr, suffocating
The silver-lining. Rusting
Until like bruised skin.

We wonder where all the rain has gone, since
The air is littered with lightning:
Bolts hurdled to the ground by our kin of
Simian Royalty: A dynastic destruction

We are the kings of our own strata
We are the apes of our own undergrowth
We sit back as the canopy crinkles charred
We sit back as Vesuvius downpours
a torrent of ash over our forest

We ride mushroom clouds
over the skyline. We ride
the blackened boxes of Pandora
through the atmosphere

I wonder why the fruit tastes
Less sweet , the air reeks
Of overripe hope, and our crowns
Curdle and mold