They journey to the sky
as to picnic sights
where ethereal beings caress their minds.

They’re the lads of the star
yet like shy bats
than face the mild light
they clutch tighter unto the monstrous night
to kill time in gyratory chants
around clustered banana stands.

Owls are pipers
and skulls drums.

The gaunt matron holds the throne
from where the communion flows
with the moon and stars like torch
they trace pathways to beast and man
and only few barriers hedge their track
they float...they glide.

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