Passion has deflagrated yet again and passed as an ephemeral arc of spark, having had its existence lost to Eeyore’s eternal fog of grey, whence hope bows and doubt re-rains. ; )

Declared crepuscular crawlies, as a community complaint, regarding beachy birds perched in a queue, “Their embodiment of a line is fine, but as a bodement of what serves dawn’s dine, we need you to consider our bid whine.” ; )

Emerging fore the horizon, an odyssey—a majestic fantasy not yet dreamt—sent, via cooled breeze, an invitation to begin the first stanza of a story worthy of a skolion with surest friends. ; )

No pockets for the posies, so basket teems with blooms,

Whose endophytes may allergy-bite—her head assumes.

Clara feels, though, that bouquets are worth every itch-rash—

Fleeting stings soothed by greater joy of living by pash.

So, rings round the grassy ground may leave her shoes astain,

But while green is no ease, up-steps remain her refrain. ; )

Perched like an ancient queen,

Purview which ave has seen:

Oceans blue to leas green,

Bills filled to ills thraneen,

Offspring: sprung, teen, and wean.

Now, fancied flights need a preen—

For aged birds on histories lean,

Gleaning mems—both tears and gleen. ; )