A Poetry Collection

Outside

The moon is hidden behind a faint layer of clouds,

Occasionally trees spring up in small mounds

Soon the gathering is, for those warrior cats,

Where they address and whisper, and spread rumors of rats

The pink clouds float, in a topless sky,

If we look far enough, Mars is close enough to fly

Night hasn't quite come, it's far closer though,

Then it was at midday, a long time ago.

Two layers of trees shadow the so, so long road

On which we are traveling, and the end of it, at that home we will hold.