A man of fair stature was born on the wind
Brought from the harbour on the vessials of whim
Was not his choice that he must depart
But with a slash of a sword he had his start

What am I to do with the time I am giving
The clock is the hand that chooses my path
My past behind to the future I'm driven
But my feet have been stayed by society's wrath

Four years have I sat in the seat you sit there
Watching the arm go 'round without a care
With the sun on the horizon, and me unprepared
The hope of success seems hopelessly rare

The ink has dried, the script is writ
No matter how hard, no matter the grit

What will the wills of another force me to do
Predestined to be forgotten I'm filled with sorrow
Opportunity lost and for the once the blame is not on you
Alas the sun is down, I must await the morrow

Whatever toil I must endure, whatever weight I must bare
Whatever demon I must conqour whatever dark I must stare
I will do what I will do to recieve my fair share
The prospect of failure seems hopfully rare

The ink has dried the script is writ
And I know not where my part will fit
I will not be denied
No matter how hard, no matter the grit

I knew a man from WestWay Ridge
With a taste for the fine
He walked with head held high
And his rule
Divine

So he took a map
And drew a line
And said
This is yours
And this is mine

When the sun is shining on a cloudless day
And with nothing particular planned
You feel the need to go and get away
And you listen to your minds demand

So go and drink Spanish red while over looking the city
Then later with partner in hand
Dance with her at a blues committee
And when you look to the Meramac
Take comfort compared to her it'll never be so pretty

And in the evening sun look to her eyes
To your suprise you'll notice a twinkle there
And her the same from you, to her surprise
Then drift away cloudless day without care

When one can talk to another without disguise
When one can't forget a face after a look
The one you d never despise
The one who reads you like a book
One day two blue birds will nest by a brook

The beast romes in the field across the stream
Oh how I would love to indulge in the dream
It feeds on grass and wild flower
Basking in the sun, passing the hour

Free of worry, free of pain
No need to hurry, no need to strain
Time is endless in my dream
Of the field across the stream

And the cold was shaken
And the silence was broken
And the world was created,
Without a word spoken

When the heat drew back
And the lights dimmed
The black returned
And seeped back in

There is a meter that all the poets will master
It is the meter of the great poet Shackspeare
While learning they will devolpe a love grown fast
And will sometimes cry a drop of salty tear

I find it traditional and quite stale
I find it confining and quite a jail


That's why I broke the meter in two

And done did
         What I
Do
One and one
Two and two


     This poem is nothing









BOO !!!