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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