Picnic

They lie down upon the grass
Smiling up at the cloudless sky
Staring into the abyss of each’s being
Basking in the wonder of existence
Dreaming of many tomorrows
Captured by the enduring inclination
To recreate moments in time

They satisfy their hunger by
Consuming fruit, wine, & decadence
Feeling the never-ending cycle of endings
But not them
They would not be like the others
They would be unlike the world
They would float atop the breeze

They hear pretty words, and then those stop
They see souls perched on clouds, and then those fall
They smell pheromones that quickly burn out
They taste success, and feel what is yet to come
And nothing is left, but to embrace inconstancy
And to hold fast to those
Sweet moments in time

One thought on “Picnic

  1. Pingback: Regaining Creativity | Renaissance Female

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