At times I write and poetry absconds
As if bound verse were longing to be free,
And yet my pen commands that it belong
Unto some stilted hackneyed harmony.
While any scribe it seems can dash out prose
As children often crayon outside lines,
But to so yet a cogent ode compose
While keeping it within the realm of rhyme
Is still the truest challenge of the bard
To have his rune perform as pure romance;
Where every stroke like orchestrated fard
Through maquillage, drab features so enhanced;
But let me state, a thought is still a thought,
Though writ by fools, and when it rhymeth not.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.