Poetry - Prince And His Frevor

(Trigger) To Evergreen's Sanguine, To Hope. - Bonus Chapter.

Does an elder scolded their uncle's because they drank too many bottles, I took close looks with monocle, he seemed to mutter past chronicles, linked to the by-blows and also-rans and how to deal with loosing ones promises, I wonder how one doesn't fall to hopelessness, when the path that you always wrote down, doesn't seem so sure now or making sense.

As to be born a Duke or a Viscount , As it seems so cool now, When you've been raised with a loyal spouse , But even then it can be lost ln indulgence and quiet, Raise the glasses , You Can dance now and be wicked, though you're a frontline with words taken grievously, A flight of words all it's worth , And a few families screams of goodbye's still echo's even if you're still a fellow laying on the turfs, You'd just wish to be forever burned, backlogged to every word. And reasons to do double-think something impulsive on commercial forbearers and some of the nastiest pieces of work.

Ends to a salute to survivors, to be praised as saviors, made to think you wished to pay for this, that playing cards and flashes of horrors is the dream of any fellow, sanguine and crimson stood red turned the greenest of meadows.

Deer in the headlights muttering prayers. The charge d'affaires to my absent vivacity over phantoms under my bed daring to lure me to my death, while my battles continue to bury my legs, being tied to the know-how's, looking bigger than me now, once a greenhouse turned a heath came spring poppies. Arrivederci