The toad looked to the sunset,
greeted it with a weary croak.
It nestled in, starting its night.
Mundane and filled with peace.

I wonder what it means to be
a toad. Green ridged with gold.

Do his hops hold a destination?
Do his tears hold longing?
Or is it blood, cogs, and gears?

A mind filled with static.

I do not know, and perhaps I never will.