This very poem I now compose,
without regard for where it flows,
but touching on some thoughts in mind,
so as to not get far behind,
like keeping up I ever could,
no smarter than a chunk of wood,
whoose splint'ry touch pricks sharply through,
and brings to mind what some call blue,
then brings that warmth when fire burns,
glowing embers taking turns,
giving way to other forms,
comfort from so many storms.
