Hard Times Strange Poem by Kevin Maroney

Whistle weekly to my tune,
as through my head in such soon
inscrutable ways doth my mind flow,
how ever can one really know?

Will it strike a spark, be put to bed?
Or strike out in a totally new direction instead.
This dilection I feel courses through my soul,
as such sweet melodies caress me till I'm full.

That wondrous hymn of words locking together,
as heavy as drums, as light as a feather,
in step forever, they march to attention,
and as I rise to the challenge, sometimes a stretchin',
They rhyme so careful, as I lay them to rest,
till they're just in the way they could be best.

Naught but for prose hath I changed my speak,
as indeed, I ought not to change it every week,
my soul's constant, not a twister or changer,
as it takes the current and makes it a stranger.

The rock of one's being's not easy to estrange,
as it becomes one's home in hard times and waters strange.