When blocked writer’s letters placed in noggin’s cogitating keeve ferment no reprieve, that which is hazy will emerge as a daisy if hands continue to believe. ; )

Would a bloom trade its petals plucked for pages turned to tucked—forego the metage of saturated soil that nourishes its sun-seeking soul for a paving rather than a planted role—wither itself to the brink of death for a chance to partake in a story that rhythms each living breath—prefer to grow in a sense outside of its stem even if it were to no longer be a gem to them? ; )

Sneaped Deborah The Zebra at her unwanted guests, “Tsetse flies, time to take Fleeflee byes—for thinking you could get types rather than gripes from these stripes.” ; )

As neomenia’s season arrives,

Feline of quite the eye size does apprise:

That regarding each of current nine lives,

Over the moon is status to surmise. ; )

Whence chirper would perch for calling all creatures to communion held, too, as place to cast commination at the craven—any of rest who would resist crest’s behest convincing caretaking amongst every other breast. ; )