Mind the Mirth

I mowed the meadows of cosmological beginnings, and smelled the fresh grass of greatness.
The radical rotunda of difficulties spun its little head of illusive happiness and scattered the glass of giddiness to giggly guys in funny tights.
The terrible swift chord of caution was shouting with strong jolts of panic alarmed at the state of deceiving stares.
When will the rolling reams of riotous laughter inundate the dusty haunts of despondency and rekindle the flames of hope and happiness that lift us from the depths of despair to the heights of joy?
When will we know where and why the inner fires are glowing red with resonating rhythms and rivulets of melodic insight?
Where do we find the roads to the real life rhymes of the Thames?
Where are the wisdom wells in which we can dip our destinies to rinse them of selfish grime?
Place your questions in the magic bole of bliss and the mystic mind will manifest the multitudinous mists of mesmerizing and mysterious mirth.