Upon Me Maker, Second Taker

[Contention]

‘Twas set in time,
A’ cuckled rhyme;
Twisting, twisting
By sublime.

What dost it say
When it spray
Hours on the
Mark of day?

Two to chance,
Deadly dance;
‘Round about,
In outer stance.

Doth it mourn,
Heavy scorn;
Giver of
The worldly born

Showing, growing,
Seeds for sewing;
Mother Earth
And all unknowing.

That which showers
Plenty flowers;
Raining in
On clouds of hours.

Running force,
Valiant horse;
In, about,
And round of course.

Hoe to plow,
Till to sow;
Turning ‘bout
The then and now.

Clock confine,
Soul align;
Bade this heart
Inside of mine.

Ting-a-Ting,
Hark to sing,
Crimson bells
Relay in ring.

Take His hand,
Form the band:
Unity
Throughout the land.

Chimes to tear
Prime the gear;
Start us up,
Another year.

Bring to end
What man would spend;
If his hands
Could rightly tend.

Without sound,
Fold the mound;
Burried deep
In underground.

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Follow the grammatical puncuation; do not stop at every line. If there is a period, stop, or a comma take a breath. Don't mean to bother you with it, do as you please

Yuck, if only this poem wasn't completly disgusting; perhaps it would have some kind of leverage to stand upon. There are a lot of miscalculations with this piece in general; but then it again, it really had no major supply to begin with. Most of it's support was found in random outlets of conscience, somewhat like it's own stream. However, there is a bit of fret in rhythm due to a new type of style being chanced. That is, this of a three word rhyming stanza; where it would be somewhat like "A A B A". Which sounds alright, but finding a word that rhymes three times, makes sense, and does interupt a train of thought can at times be completly taxing. Many others out there could likely pull this off with ease, and keep it in tone and quality. Yet, as for now, this is the variable for the stopping point; it can no farther, nor does it wish to. It seems to stop there; unless more was to be said, in some sort of ramble.

The theme of this poem, once again seems to strike that of time. As to why can not be said; but something about how man is controlled by more than just God is somewhat peculiar. Perhaps religious ones would see Time as a measurment that God placed on Earth to create mortality and extinguish immortality. Perhaps, we as men may never know until death. Either way though, it is a mystery that we can not solve. Thus, it winds up in many poems as the antagonist as to what is being potrayed. Such in no diffrent here. The poem begins slightly with Stanza one introducing the effort of time as nothing more but a rhyme. Somewhat like a riddle, something that has to be anaylzed before it could ever be comprehended. The second stanza begins right off; a very quick jump, motioning into the riddle itself. Questioning as to the importance of hours, the time of day, the use of time to display these numerical forms.

The third stanza is somewhat of a mock against the form of the clock, with two hands that round the outside. The rest can be picked up on a quick read of that section; it is more metaphorical. The dance is deadly, as to why? Well, it counts down or own life, and the time that we seem to inevitably waste. The third brings to question, somewhat strangely, as to if time would ever mourn the duties that it must spare. To raise and kill it's own child; bringing into the world, countless human beings and items that in it's hands must eventually meet their maker; face to face. However, in it's palms; as the fifth stanza states, we are raised not by Mother Nature in total. For you see, we are somewhat controlled by time; and that is a more fluent and abudant father. For we can not escape it, nor destroy it; as we do our own maternal passion. Stanza five represents the "showers of hours on flowers". Somewhat peculiar, yet obviously remarking us, humans, as the flowers. We are grown in hours.

The seventh stanza is to metaphorical to break down; besides that of which time may never completly stop. It continues it's course, out of the molestation of mankind. The eigth illuminates time in that of a farm image; displaying it as a tool to uncover the past, present, and future. The ninth stanza uses time in the existance of man, wondering as to what makes our own hearts tick; as if they are an eternal clock, constantly on the run. The last running stanzas work together; stating that time is like God. It runs us, and consumes us, and in the end shall bury us in it's mounds. Where we no longer will come to exist.