Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals of progression.

Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling fortunes
(they did).
From the center literally nothing is granted, good as your word.

It’s a poem.
Now months later, fine timing
Since you waited to listen, not empower others.

Everything belongs hiding in plain sight, living unhinged, no limits.
A fact, also a point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber
pierced day, night, point b...

Terpsichore is still ascetic, improvisatory, a voice sherbet hued like
Erato’s toppling the series, a voice of suspicion, hisses.