The Rhyme

Bend the will of rhyme to time, define one single speck of peace, grant a solace ‘twixt the words upon the ink’s sweet black release. Drift my mind to never worlds, where cursive loops in scrawling bleed, that there I find a fascination in all these crazy scenes of greed. Or is it need, that drives it there, takes control, extends my hair and boils a madman’s single eye that stares upon the page with fire, in ire burgeoned from a peace where just one moment did release?

But here in diving deep to find the moment’s pause, the sacred rhyme, here in swimming longer through the glancing blows of what is true, finding meter’s just a lie, so left to face what surely dies when now the freedom’s passed! The clock says “go!” and I alas, must follow or be ruined sure, so back to work in fires impure, back to head and shovel down, sweat and blood enough to drown even the best of all our strength…

But now, the language comes to me, the fired rhyme and rhythm be, each word is cast upon my mind, I stand among the dregs to find that they are listening quite content, their shovels gone, their hurry spent. They listen to each lengthened phrase, their gasps crescendo in honest praise, they feel the power granted here and when I’m through, they stand and cheer!

In audience of the pen and ink, ‘tis that which grows within, I think, that matters most, yet spoken hence without the written plan’s suspense, that every word to them beholding is carried true throughout the folding hands of space and time, the shovel, sweat, the pain and rhyme… all ‘tis mine!