Fragment of a whole

In the eyes of whites is a cloud, pregnant with rain, not to birth .There is the whole of waterfall, the eye doctor would proclaim . Water dried some summers ago to a cloud that looked like cotton balls.

The balls wiped the tears in eyes that spun in endless bobbins ,a yarn progressing stories to the kid about evil black magicians’ lives ,held captive in parrots in distant islands. Parrot is the fragment of my childhood .

There must be a meaning to tale till a tale would meet its sugary end .The telling mouth would turn at an event and there was anger in eyes of fire .There is no water to quell a fire . It is a wild fire in the eye whites .

But now it is only a fragment of a whole and not whole of the fragment.