?

Out of the depths of my thoughts emanates boom.
Guns, wars, divisions, orphans becloud my mind with doom
With lifted heads do we face the world?
Bound around us, strapped like a metallic cord

The green grasses
Turned molasses

Darwinism provokes, evokes change,
Bound to this concept what is the range?
Constantly chased around by deaths wind
We do well, strive, thrive, survive, and grasp that which we find.
Men, women, girls, boys bound to time
Slaves of time, dancing to its constant chime

We gather, collaborate, congregate
Then blows the wind, separating the aggregate
Those we loved, hated, them also we mourn
Beclouded by doom, my soul waits for the dawn of the morn
Let the visions of my thoughts be that which I see
Cross pollinating, happy, busy as the bee.


An essay on criticism be the work of Alexander Pope
For that which I’m scribe I seek its scope
Heeding to Pope’s words, “launch not beyond your depth, but be discrete”
“And mark that point where sense and dullness meet”

World stages,
My words be sniffed as incense through all ages
Before the wind will blow,
Of that which I am custodian I must allow flow

Out of the depths of my thoughts emanates boom
Alas! From whence comes all this gloom
All who congregate, collaborate seek change
Bound to the prevailing question what is the range?
Destination- seeking, searching, before the chill of the wind
Undulating paths we tread, the holy HILL we must find.

Out of the depths of my thoughts emanates boom