Two palms of remnant light fade
With the meteor blaze
trailing off into the west,
this high pitched mountain trail,
crimson in the gathered mist.
Not really sure what Iím supposed to feel
And how to act upon it, the silent
Gladness at the midnight rain and me
Under the blankets.
This tasteful amaranth bud beckons
To lean into its whispering neck,
Pronounce the prophecies deceased, oh truly,
This must be the end of times.