In The Clouds of The Gnome Party

There was a gnome party, a gnome party there was. Beneath the whispering chime of the toffee clouds, gnomes donned the attire of revelry. Pack a lunch, pack a drink, the wind sings its silent hymn, a forgotten chorus echoing through the cotton sky.

The mushroom lanterns flicker, casting silhouettes on the soft rug of grass. But time bends like the curious stem of an unpicked daisy. Gnome party there was, there was a gnome party. Pack a lunch, they had packed, whispered once more through breathless winds.

And when the stars began to pop like kernels in a forgotten pot, it was the same story — a tune stubbornly persistent, looping yet never boring. No, the gnomes danced to the rhythm of the ever-evasive present, a record either cracked or completed, depending on one's view under the toffee clouds.