Golden

We have been sitting on the grass all day, the sun hot upon our backs.

But now the day is drawing in, the sun giving it's last hurrah as it sings through the clouds,

And gives it's blessing.

If the wind is right the music funnels through the downs and can be heard miles away,

But I am not sure if this is the case on this still evening.

We move closer, into the crowd and the melody starts up. People dance, people sway, people fight within the crowd,

But none of it deters from what we are really here for,

Our false gods upon the stage.

The canons fire confetti upon us, and it does not fall, but rather floats onto us,

Sometimes swirling up and round in convection currents created by our own bodies

Packed together so tightly.

It falls and is eventually trampled by the people it originally showered,

And in the dying light as the sun sings through the clouds and we worship our gods,

How glorious it must be, to exist for that one spurt of freedom,

For that one wondrous flight.