SOMETHING HAPPENED NOT
Some fashioner of beauty had begun
some stern reminding of each afternoon
as that late moment seemingly had spun
some nifty semblance of some nice cocoon.
The firm trepidity then in each tune
engendering a solace and a lilt
was rather like the pleasantry a rune
might seem about to hurl on some old quilt.
Preponderantly loving pangs of guilt
that goldenly might cling (nay, always would)
were in the modes by which I felt a hilt
descending into entrails almost good.
The gusty gutsy backdrops of some smiles
forever were eclipsing many styles.

I really like the way your words wove together to create this poem.

Dear **Gilly**: My vocables flowed
and somehow both glinted and glowed.
The outcome was guilty
of seeming as quilty
as might any field nicely hoed.