Of Things Portray

Beg fortunes wilt they, Formally, I stated before, Thence the standard, Can it be very sad? I answer in tone deaf, Idle from the broke box, If one's own heart told, Heavy is the burden, Heave it over to stains, Alive and wonderful, Am I likewise the fool? As solitude of breath live, A tourniquet of blankets, A salvaged life there ill, Awakens one's own, Hearty glad spirit!