Whistle weekly to my tune, <br />as through my head in such soon <br />inscrutable ways doth my mind flow, <br />how ever can one really know? <br /> <br />Will it strike a spark, be put to bed? <br />Or strike out in a totally new direction instead. <br />This dilection I feel courses through my soul, <br />as such sweet melodies caress me till I'm full. <br /> <br />That wondrous hymn of words locking together, <br />as heavy as drums, as light as a feather, <br />in step forever, they march to attention, <br />and as I rise to the challenge, sometimes a stretchin', <br />They rhyme so careful, as I lay them to rest, <br />till they're just in the way they could be best. <br /> <br />Naught but for prose hath I changed my speak, <br />as indeed, I ought not to change it every week, <br />my soul's constant, not a twister or changer, <br />as it takes the current and makes it a stranger. <br /> <br />The rock of one's being's not easy to estrange, <br />as it becomes one's home in hard times and waters strange.<br /><br />Kevin Maroney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hard-times-strange/
