any morning, alongside sunrise.
Or would you rather wither, like conifer
stepping on my toes, your moniker.
I'm unable yet, you know,
a cactus in making, slow and marrow,
for morose is drunken delight,
biscuits in maple syrup - an erudite.
Now aren't I dipped in melancholy too?
As animation, meant to be construed,
we eschew upon these frozen foods,
each for the taking, equally subdued.
Slowly, we'll melt - in chorus, misspelt;
painting viscous with gratitude,
as impatience begs to please your whims,
winter beckons - rude, equally grim.
Therefore, we simmer away,
weathering the armor - subtly pique'd,
with rain sashaying away at my sleeves,
your bones submitting, us naive.
