O how your soft blue pedals lay quilted along
a white picket fence on a fine sunday morn,
But how you do belong
resting on thine eyes, moments do I wake,
Though her gracious lips do rest instead,
Knowing that I should have lead
lower to thine for an eternal quake
of pure ecstasy.

Though, beautiful Morning Glory, bright as you may
be, the somber day hasth come to take you away.
As with my dear lover, I shall sing your song
to remind us you are ne'er truely gone.
Blessed be your Beauty; forevermore flowing through life,
Cursed be my breath, surronded in such strife.

Her Beauty so fine, lays across a Feather
of such purities, as none but your own.
Damned I to have used such a device
To write this dreaded poem - My false boon.
Though their Beauty will weather -
in fine eternity past,
O! Precious Feather!
O! Morning Glory!
Your Beauty will cease last.

- Time.