Ronald's wispy whites dance, in the wind.

Wear your anticipation proudly.

Wait, wait for a drop.

A drop of virtue.

It calls you names:

Fixture, 

Aspect,

Guest.

Starchflower judgment lines the mouths

Of every precancerous penny.

In the new room with out any locks, 

Is catapedamania.

She's reasonable enough, does her job.

Latticino words form whelmed words whisper, worlds. Into existence.

Monday

Wednesdays

Thursday

Days of leaves falling to the ground

The bone branches, already gnawed on

There, across the fragile floor 

Philip trys.

His eyes are green, and red lined.

He'll try to grow some more time

For smiles,

For Red,

For roads to the east.