Should simple things be done sans reflection,
or poured on 'til they appear crumpled.
Should vexed matters be left in dejection,
or done hurriedly in a state o' rumpled.
Months pass sans matter, Matter passes too,
soon forgotten in the gyre of memory.
till an idle Tuesday night brings it anew,
The musings of mind vanquish the drudgery.
The eternal spring looses upon the mind,
It baths itself in ancient words and new.
Thus poetry is blessed upon man-kind,
The words spread like rays and debut.
For tis true ,no poetry springs from a moment,
or poured on 'til they appear crumpled.
Should vexed matters be left in dejection,
or done hurriedly in a state o' rumpled.
Months pass sans matter, Matter passes too,
soon forgotten in the gyre of memory.
till an idle Tuesday night brings it anew,
The musings of mind vanquish the drudgery.
The eternal spring looses upon the mind,
It baths itself in ancient words and new.
Thus poetry is blessed upon man-kind,
The words spread like rays and debut.
For tis true ,no poetry springs from a moment,
but collects itself in a natural catchment.
 |
| A Pen resting upon paper |
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