I rather like this random rhyming.
It’s like climbing stairs,
The rhythm of one foot-step here,
Another there.
It leaves the mind to contemplate
A perfect space,
A perfect period
In time.

A primitive place, if you will…
Destined to thrill,
To take us all
To those dark and unexplored intentions,
Resting with our anxious ears on solid sound
Where one in thirty is thirsty for cacophony
And a half-dozen more are
Starving for a steady heartbeat.

Give me a laugh, a sigh,
A sleepy baby’s lullaby!

I, for one, am glad
There is no science to it.
Obtuse angles are so often
Incompatible with
The occasional
Synapse lapse,
Such gaps leaving me
Exponentially indecisive.

I prefer, instead, that
Specific perspectives
Require no ancillary theory,
No burden of proof.
And I, concurrently
Shall offer no truths
And only these words
To be delivered…

I am the stick
With embered end,
Waved recklessly about,
Tracing crazy circles
Across a darkened horizon.


Michael S. True
5-16-08 last edit 8-19-13