It’s too bleak the art of good verse
for amateurs to read their work
where critics come to smile and smirk
as poets go from worse to worse.
As poets go from worse to worse
heart-break’s agony spread too thick
lonely souls yearning to be kissed
by a dark enlightening curse.
A dark enlightening curse gives
a verse writer subject matter
to let sad sobbing words splatter
fat tears over a poem’s ribs.
Fat tears onto a poem’s ribs
masks the delicate march of feet
leads the tempo towards defeat
and hangs the rhyme before it lives.
To hang the rhyme before it lives
corrupts the will to sparsely write
verse that brings the brink of hot light
to cast shadows on loves and sins.
To cast shadows on sins and loves
could be the reason for fine art
and short quatrains could be the start
to finding what poetry does.
Finding what poetry can do
is a lifetime of sorting words
stumbling through lists of nouns and verbs
counting fingers till lines are true.
Lines are true when counting fingers
keep conning over the same place
moving purposefully in space
to right a foot that still lingers.
Lingering still on the right foot
this three six five project is now
tied to its prescribed daily rate
all square with the task undertook.