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