Forest

Monsters abound in the,

Dead of the afternoon,

Which one will you run,

Into at large,

Or small?,

The winding curve of,

This bountiful river,

Is a bullet for the,

Comet that is coming,

To devour even the smallest,

Of the omnivores,

A cloudless phantom,

In the desolation of,

Eternity, even where,

There are none to follow,

Ransacking the memories,

Of every minute mammal,

The dinosaurs’ of the coming,

Dawn in multitudes,

Exploding through chasms,

Of regret that the volcanoes,

Would not see them again,

Or their fluffy tails,

Maybe they will pass,

Through the growth spurts,

Of a passing Era.