Perhaps you could translate these strictures
Into more intelligible thought balloons
How the acorns crunched under the tires
When anxiety filled the air
Like clouds of brimstone
When Lucifer was hurled
In hideous ruin and combustion down
Or Jolene regretted the fall of sparkle
From her rigid ten-gallon hat
Its brim curled up like a pangolin
Or the pages crumbled in the college textbook
While you clear out her house
In preparation for the estate sale
Salting away the inspirational placards
Live laugh love
And thou wast not born for death
Father and son tromped through the cornfields
Well after the harvest was in
Enjoying the chill
Marking the small mammals
Ostensibly hunting pheasant
But he never raised the shotgun
From the crook of his arm
The birds in flight always too far away
And the memory fossilizes
Assuming more angular proportions
As this years model adopts
The aggressive styling of cars
Much faster and more expensive
Tightening the vertices
While the LEDs proliferate
And the acorns just sit there
Waiting for a more expressive rendering