The Rallying
Skyborne buglers rally the lazy clouds together
that loll about the skies as velvety as a feather,
sleeping in peace and dreaming of crimson sunsets,
drifting and playing amongst the purple silhouettes,
rolling in the empty spaces where nothing moves,
waiting to mount up on sky steeds with lofty hooves,
to race with the fleeting winds up in the highlands,
caught up in the swirling of the swirling fans,
rallying from the bugles as they sound on cue,
mixing with the other clouds in the witch’s brew,
spirited dancing and prancing in the nervous air,
twisting and turning and dressed in pompous flair,
peering down at the withered fields clothed in brown
and the searing skin of those attached to the ground,
to fall upon them like angels from the savory oceans,
the Neptunian Wizards with their medicinal potions,
a curing like no other medicines can do
upon the skin and through and through,
from the rallying of the bugles and their heroism,
sounding the rites of such a God-fearing exorcism,
the cooling rain falls and soothes the searing skin
where the sun has shone, and the burning fires have been.
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