Olding glory

She writes a novel

In her sparetime brawl

With a desperation 

Nameless to but the select few

That can afford the leisure 

To waste

I wait her arrival

In summer setting story

And off-bright descending

Into some sort of 

olding glory

But me, it's shame

To be the spearhead of cultivation

Villifying beauty branded

By the broken name of civilization

And where's my chain?

And where are my chains?

Or at least some claims?