Our Tales

At the end of the day
I see a flattening curve.
All ups and downs have
plummeted to dust.
All colored, dreamy mounds
are whispering to yellow grass
their final, infructuous tales.
and those who sighed minus tags,
have now prepared beds on dust
and grass, by the side of
tips of pyramids.
All curves are now flattened
Only the setting sun has a glorious,
cryptic smile