The Clouds

I looked at the clear blue sky And I saw a lone cloud fly Changing shapes as it flows Freezing wherever the wind slows A million figurines interact overhead I can see from a corpse to a newlywed Flowing fabrics of joy spring alive Then soon rip to shreds, it doesn't thrive Everyone sees different worlds in the clouds But are the clouds ever more than a crowd? What if the clouds are a portrait of self? Just a collection of what you felt The realm in clouds is a figment of imagination All of this is subject to our interpretation All this tells us is that we must have doubts What is reality? And what are the clouds?