Strain.

Would you take me by surprise?

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.