Am I so shackled here in dated rhyme,

Fair bound and trussed, by common custom ruled,

Envying those who are tradition blind,

Pure pleasure bound and by crass chaos schooled?

Oh but the freedom of a pen unbound,

That crafts prose images in cursive stream,

Concocting scenes which by collage confound

Like baffling oddments of a drug fueled dream!

Yet where stands thought unguided by a plan,

The streaming conscience of some arcane soul,

Where mindless metaphors in sequence span:

Daft scripted emperors bereft of clothes?

I follow proud convention but to prove—

Fidelity to custom, lore and truth.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.