Poetry

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WHEN DAY'S BECOME THEIR OWN CONSENTED WAY,AND NIGHT ITSELF IS EVER
ON DISPLAY,WHERE IS THAT PLACE INSIDE WHERE MIND AND HEART RESIDE,
ROAD'S AND SOME HILLY FIELDS SO GREEN NO SOUL OR SINNER YET APPEAR,
TIME'S NO BOUGHT WHEN ROADS ARE SOUGHT AS FIELD'S ARE HILLS WHERE
LIFE GOT CAUGHT,MUST TAKE THEM AS THEY COME THEY CANNOT LEAVE THEY
GREW AS ONE,UNLIKE THE ROAD THAT TURN'S AND TWISTS AND FIELD'S
EACH SIDE WITH DITCHE'S PRIDE,OUT IN THE OPEN COUNTRICED HOUNDS MAY
HUNT AND DRAG AS WELL,THEY KNOW THE SCENT WHERE THE WINNER NO FELL,
AS ONE MAY TELL AMEN MAY SAY HOW THE DAY WENT WELL,IS A WORD EXCEL;
FEELS GOOD TO SPELL,ESPECIALLY WHILE WE ALL DWELL PRAY TELL.
Joe.

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