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.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
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.
Request permission to use this poem