Peteroo's Blog

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. ; )