foot prints paint the horizon;
leaping around the sunset
sky strokes of green and purple.
Pause and breathe in deep
that hazy valley smirk. An air
so polluted it rests golden on
any tongue brave enough to
lick. This is the gilded age;
We are the chosen people.
Kitty laughs and leaps through
the mash potato sky that
stares down on me so grim.
A white teeth of cloud devour
kitty and suddenly there is no
artist, no God, no eternity.
I'll put my faith in anything;
I'm just an old dog who
can't learn any new tricks.
I bear down on all fours
and wag my tail in the sunset
as I drift off again, lost pup.
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