Or in lower cases, out by the jewelers regulator, in the turn of word limit, in all but Oscare’s final written words

The ways in which the elms bend across the street, in the golden lights of another dawn I rise, in the torn little chimney

Floats about the tailwinds of the little birds, flowing about our time once my vision blurs

To the silouhetted foreground, those little structures about grey town in a village of scattered mulch about, walking through the whimsy, oh glory. 

In someodd years, I may rest in another pursuit of the stars, though I’m sure you know the way the chickadee cries

On braille, or matrimony, whichever may suit our quivering moments together, though I say call upon the finches to rally 

In all the olden novels or excess vowels, a boeth pace crawling forth after you, in once more all the cake mix groans nor velvet sights

But would we know, would we remember days of life bursting forth on the maplewood, for this, tonight, I call upon a nemorivagance finale 

In Due Time