UnPoetia:The Spring

Poetry for people who hate poetry

Against my shiny spring shall be as it is at the mo,

With Corrosion's injurious hand rust'd and o'erworn;

When oxygen has drain'd his metal and fill'd my hand

With lines and sprinkles; when springs youthful shine

Hath travelled on to guage's steepy night;

And all those bits whereof now he's sprung

Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,

Stealing away the treasure of my spring;

For such a time do I now WDfortify

Against confounding guage's cruel vibrations,

That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet spring's spring, though my spring's time:

His shininess shall in these phosphors/liquid crystal/other lines be seen,

And they shall live, and he in them still shiny and springlike.