An Idiot at Poetry (NAPOWRIMO 2015 #21)

When I die, my epitaph will not read

an obscure line from Shelley or a haiku

transcribed in syllabicated verse; No —

fancy rhythm or rhyme is for no poor man,

and my life is no stanza where the enjambments

knowingly smirk. Like the tidal crash of

monstrous trees or conflicted imagery

nibbling at nightmares — oh! alliteration!

how horrid it sounds! do words, do words

echo in a romantic’s pen? but when form

mirrors function, I smile and die a sudden

man; a sudden man of prosaic jabs

and pathetic stabs at beauty’s shadow

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