Life is like a weather-man's parade,
A spun-out ride of calamity,
And,
Causation,
Such details lost like blue winds,
In ever-green plateau's
Or high desert mountains,

All of the images,
My mind displays,
Are radiating,
Yet transparently,
Confining themselves,
Into whatever isometric language,
They deem fit

Of all the gifts Thine hand bestows,
Thou Giver of all good!
Not heaven itself a richer knows
Than my Redeemer's blood.

Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain;
Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
That gift had been in vain.

Till Thou Thy teaching power apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And weak, as a distemper'd eye,
Shut out the view of Thee.

Blind to the merits of Thy Son,
What misery we endure!
Yet fly that Hand from which alone
We could expect a cure.

We praise Thee, and would praise Thee more,
To Thee our all we owe:
The precious Saviour, and the power
That makes Him precious too.

Twisted
Burning
Toiling
Anguish
Wrapped,
Concealed
Deep
Beneath
D­isconcerted
Contortion
Attempting
Feigning
Effervescence.

Like Daisies,
I shift,
un-turned eye's caress,
My utero stance,
I am amazed at all of the way's
A man can die,
Like pigeon breathe in the morning,
Outward and un-biased,
Spewing chunks of waves hit my surrendered vision,


Fortune is a calling for sparrow's nests,
Like Fame is a smell of cheese,
Both require youth and effigies of a tender tune,
One is requite,
Both are reprimanded,

Serving and Being,
Are benign,
In all area's divine,
Like solitude breakfast,
In place's unknown,

My title for this poem should be,
About the daisies, but I forget,
Why the solace was so low?