The Final Countdown
Twelve and three begin
Reality unravels
But so gracefully
Six months and four days
Until the final flourish
When both are complete
Until then I bloom
Powers growing like flowers
A dozen roses
Perhaps they are red
Or the prism's reflection
Only time will tell
She uses time well
With words of inspiration
Etching lasting notes
Will they receive us
Will they be disappointed
I guess it is moot
For time marches on
The party soon fully formed
With the Bard and Muse
By ten or a dozen
How you count is meaningless
It is in His time
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