Seagulls still turn and pick at foam, mist from griffin wings prism the orange sunshine, this day Roman some odd may hold a moon, but none of Laguna Gold.
The denizens in this poem are fading but will never grow old. May I be the hero please? None can know. Status pressure world's cursed squeese stiffles good reason.
Forever frindships die, foolishly we count them lightly.
A pile of broken Barbies cry and Kens waiting for the new prom that will save us all yet never arrives.
So quorgal and Yarp and wiggle with glee one never knows the wiggles left to thee.
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