Sunday, April 10, 2016


                    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.