Any Sour That Comes Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Any sweetness comes there on
With hands to clap about
Things and thoughts that are done
In their meaningless doubt
What has been talked and played
With crowds thoughts drifting
Never for a whole lots long stayed
Nor was it quite much uplifting

Rush time hours are casting
With their untruth at last
Nothing worth in its trusting
That has showed its roughcast
You have thoughts that are shifting
Into dusty transportation fallen
Every opportunity rifting
With its unhelpfulness installin'

Any sour that comes from sweet
As a line of attack thinking
Must be lack or from some need
In its ways of connote stinking
Nowhere roads lead to nothing
Isn't faraway from here or ahead
Only its heart's desires bluffing
By means of their words dead

Rush time hours are casting
With their untruth at last
Nothing worth in its trusting
That has showed its roughcast
Circling ways of clouds lifting
Through their drift and sprawlin'
Quarrelsome words their grifting
From the faraway sky howlin'