sans alliteration

snooping fearfully
along the summer's edge
weeping till mourning
following the mist
arisen from a sullen,
booted toe

as far echoes glance
thru Turin's Shroud
glued to triumph
as swarming as beads
of our honeydew nectar
and serendipitous trust

the low moon shakes
amber and clanking
filling a billowed blanket
like a bag of dust

there are warning shots
as our bower drops
turpidly cutting the air
anon a sultry tear
and blasting, and shaking
the plank loose
as we forfeit breakfast
for morning

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