Bread aimed firstly to the left, but, then, tossed to the right,

Means that Mr. Mallard misses afternoon’s first bite.

But, child’s chicanery followed by a laughing sneer,

Notices not hoodwinked’s hen stealthily drawing near.

BOOM! Mum’s quacking flaps jump-scare kid kid into the lake,

For lesson’s learn: best not try to ducky ducks out-fake. ; )

Writer’s block.

Deadline’s tock.

Beads of letters sweat.

Semantics not yet.

Creation’s string longs to link.

Hopes for text tie down to think.

Alights serendipity in kind—

Like angelophany of the mind. ; )

For a stray about an eve’s noir-ish wander, rosy hope fights to enter shadow’s ponder.

Ears perk at voids’ chills whilst wishing for a trotcozy to warm a glow per hole of path’s plot. ; )

Releasing ourselves from the transgressive holds of malice, mayhem, and matanza, Advent hangs upon our trespasses the dearest gifts: forgiveness, hope, and joy. ; )

Oh, tinseled tree that I must climb, wrath upon you is a prerogative.

Pressureless pause before Klaus’s kymograph draws—when time ticks over to sharpen claws.

Mew shredded sparklies in which I will bathe: kitty glitter a la festive. ; )