There is a fullness brewed from thinking,
That denies our banal play;
From this broth we should be drinking
Oft, along our thirsting way.
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My serenity is not disturbed,
By keeping up with Jones;
Who trades his car, just every year
And owes for most he owns.
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Quite often on life's crowded way,
I let the rumbling herds pass by;
With slackened gait I search the sky,
To find the role that I must play,
'Ere curtains fall and death holds sway.
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He writes so pure, so true and sure
And does it with so little fuss.
I only know him from the way
He signs his name-A. Nony Mous.
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Dear Lord, when will I ever reach
The pinnacle from which I preach?
Joseph Anderson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brief-thoughts-poetically/
