Majestic
Would it be?
Disheveled clothes, scattered
haphazard leotards and makeshift
love. With people.
And people, who're bullfrogs
frogging their leaping bull necks,
croaked and croaked. The
night is thick with scent, of
popcorn, of potatoes scoured by
fire, and fire moist with smile.
This is the end of the endings,
when the heroes come together
and think to times far simpler,
leaving and shaping the future
like clay. An owl hunts in twilight,
grass is lazy.
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