From Wisdom Y2K 'In The History'

In The History   Life is a mystery, why write history? Underneath the world, wandering like a bird in the immediate past. More to do, not at last, wonders to the face, join a robust race. Being drawn in to stand along, so as to stick as if you belong. The thought occurs, we are all dead. Sun tanned into red. What never enters the mind? Hand clasped tight trying to find dream about what is to be born. Why hold the torso when it is torn? Art never grows on a tree. God’s gift, don’t think it is free. How I turn through writing, though not away, it’s hard biting. Away from the beach hides the thug on a rooftop, crossing like a bug. How many draw the long bow? The need to hide is so and so. Am I too late to smile? Seems like I have been gone for a long while. The world has heaped itself into a pile. Devour the poem chiseled in stone standing upright, know its tone.