My mind is up to trickery,
to find the words like chicory,
rhyme them with words like hickory,
and keep this poem going.
Rarely do I know,
which way the pen will flow.
How far the words will go,
and exactly what they're showing.
But something must be said,
to keep at bay my head.
So visions can be seen and felt,
like a swelt upon the dead.
Forgetfully remembering,
un- learnedness of soul.
Restless forever searching,
out things I think,
I do not know.
I must stop this fire here,
I must stop,
and drop,
and roll.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stop-drop-roll/
