The Cloud...

That Unicode abode in mystic mode,
Seems like a phantom from the Krypton Zone
Where memory goes to slowly erode
When we're all done with that new fangled phone.
Dead is the wit on a shelf or a scroll
So Hoover it all up into the sky
Where bytes and bits are what's left of a soul
When the rest is Soylent Green in a pie!
Then down again to a data farm plot
With an epitaph...of L.E.D. light...
Marking the spot where you once had the thought
That love was the glow that lit up the night,
And the most any cloud might ever do
Was to freshen a grave...wherever it flew!