Out of the maelstrom of unconsciousness,
A notion formed from which a verse derived
That should it find the prospect of success
Depended on how artfully contrived
It was, so ultimately what had been
Haphazard thought seemed purposefully meant,
Intended from the moment I begin
Appearing at the last as heaven sent.
But, truth be told, it’s not that way at all
And, rather, line by line, I grope my way,
While hoping my contrivances won’t stall
And I’ll discover what I have to say—
As much surprised as any auditor
Whom it’s my foremost mission not to bore.