Walking quiet country fields,
Soft shades in polished greens,
The limit of the trees bleeds out,
An elevated blue to brave the sun.

Clear out all you with your semantic antics,
This whole operation is reaching critical mass!
Too many poems to search and remember,
Too many poems to contain in one moment,
It's semiotic folds cry halt at the onslaught of words,
Yet this foreboding marks the end,
The symbolic degeneracy pressure falters on its knees,
I hear the rumblings of the end -
A supernovella is upon us!
Pooooooooooommmmmm.. . . . .

A gift from Grace himself,
Is music to my ears,
The string that resounds under my scurrying fingers,
The hum that calls out,
From the depths of my chest,
From the praise in my soul,
So I walk and sit in sounds around,
And he is glorified.