Neural Weed

Ponds, water's sold, not a soul,
Who'd bathe in them for
Greeting a new sun.
They'd take a second snore.
Wet, feelings get, but forget,
A door would cease its day,
Their day's else for.
Clouds aren't bred , aren't flown.
Dead, in their ways, in their bed,
While preachers praise their Lords,
They gaze through halos.
Dead in their own ways, I suppose.
Ask, who fake, cared and masked,
If they'd spare , a second for a sky,
Blue , brilliant, shy.
I get it. Third snore? Aye.