The old man watched the cloud drift along.
In the clear blue sky, it did not belong.
As he watched the cloud, near the rim,
He thought how much the cloud was like him.
In life, no anchor of faith had he earned,
Questions, not answers, within him burned.

His wonder had grown, as his senses grew dim,
He longed for faith, as his cloud neared the rim.
But as he lived, so must he die,
Just a drifting cloud, on a finite sky.