Like the sunrise at dawn, thriving for a glazed fidelity. 
Enough of a hole 
Without moil persevered from a cavity. 
Vanity's spasmodic clamor interweaving with her coil in affinity. 

Too tall for scramble, too poignant for alacrity. 
Still I heed to the noise. 
Won't deny the phantom evening of a dulcet glee. 
Like the charm of a cup's ale 
irish sweep, through the flour's ambiguity. 

A pale rose in a frame, 
a deary thorn in need of help. 
A bee that needs to blame 
the vile thoughts of aridity.