• on a windy sunday evening of no special concern
    two friends traveled forest’s edge to see what they could burn
    they lit branches both short and long to no avail
    and found some fireflies under gray leaves so frail

    the conversations fall like bowls on ash
    blowin out the dust that fills their bellies hash
    into the air that permeates our sense
    the dreams created from troubled lenses

    two friends they sat like pickle jars
    and like they watched the fickle stars
    pondering what they would look like upside
    down like goose eggs on a baby deer’s hide

    their heads together one mind shared
    future thoughts and hopes for all they cared
    the languid summer’s dream how winter’s torn
    of august lost and august mourned

    slowly they creep from the wood’s edge
    as they realize the jungle that lies ahead
    the sky is set on fire as the moon comes to free
    all the worries and pensiveness from their knees

    they continued on their way until they found
    a path paved with ages and glories abound
    from near and far lights shone on the pair
    a final strive and they had risen the beaming stairs

    Joy is a cracking green chariot
    For a band of mellow idiots.