The Winter Fern

Presumably ovid, with qualm, wit, and wisdom, as to the smallest orb, give way to our very own, Christendom. As horn-mad, to fetch me about, the Kings, they play mighty, their Queens, a jester and pout. Though ancient as jointure, the merry plenty they must, with the lyric of masterful lyre, a temptation of lust. The beauty of maidens, the fullness of their breasts, made ever-virtuous. As the sun sets, vertigo, the nestles of primrose and cressets, giving way to the lecherous. Oh. . . the love, of Jesus, our very own, the saintliness of Magdalene, the diadems of the Goddess throne. Amidst a canonized hearsed, our beloved Sun, rightfully lets. The essence and infinity of Magdalene, again a Nemean regrets. As the green fonds of the winter fern shed its nurturing essence. Waves of nostalgia blazened by the mid-December days ripening afternoon. The snow covered pines, the aroma of fresh coffee, the feigned ecstasies of the struggling artists made fragile, and at no attempt. Piercing thoughts of verse, no love made without quarrel. The day began as it always does in December, amidst melancholy and sorrow.