The Satisfying Poet

The one that rhymes,

cadence happy fellow.

when forever seems attractive,

a silent dawn really quiet,

a mountaintop filled with glorified promise,

a valley below that suggested,

a passing fancy drawn

by a river of gold.

~

We can believe

our hearts are sold

to the highest progression

of internal rhyme,

the ability for our soul

to be penetrated by syntax;

affection, passion,

a sordid list of precarious

descriptors all seemingly

driven by the power

of an opportunist spilling

diction.

~

I once knew a gentleman

who rhymed a silly song,

and when I tried to dig deeper,

unleashed a fleshy wound

of hypocritical malice,

my words were not well received.

~

I complained,

the world heard my voice

alter its tone,

suggest an otherwise,

once again,

there was little needed

in the realm of life-changing

autocracy.

~

I wonder sometimes,

if there ever really has been

a time we could all

agree in verse,

trade our wholesale value

for the sake of

listening to the one,

the place holder

that began our journey

home.

~

Sometime we might be asked

to let go of a fear,

allow it to fester,

like a Hughes memorial

to growing up in hatred,

only to live our lives,

the way we wanted to

if only,

just if we could maybe,

believe we might,

for only a couple of hours.

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2 responses to “The Satisfying Poet

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