Untitled Nonsense

A covenders brillow seeps not from ashes

But buttered and frillous victorious mondries

Fixtured and morose, a bell on the evening

Breaks the fodders mastering star of old grins

A two toned curtain sits way up the mountain

A courteous wink for the not so receiving

Fortunate souls on the brink of a war

To fear not what lies ahead, but sits at the door

A wonder is wistful, a toddler foresees

To break even follows a winter wind morrow

Shattered upon open draughts

Fixed to the litters

Blue linen rids the faulty of all

While black overturns the shy heads of the fall