Poem

The FenceI want to be in a story where the good guys win in the endWhere the words get smudged by my tearsBut you can still tell what they mean.I like when there is a line break between paragraphs,Wide margins down the sides of text like promenadesWhere I can leisurely stroll, leave my scraps Of inscrutable insight for whoever reads it next.Better yet, to remain frozen in a poemThat few will ever readLike a fly in yellow amberBuried in the groundOr lost on a dusty museum shelf.Either way, a form permanently captured.In a poem, no one ever wins.The good guys end up sort of badAccording to the rules of enjambmentAnd the bad guys just meltInto amorphous puddles of metaphor.UnstressedUnstressedStressedFree verse was always the doom of us.  The delusion we could create somethingOutside the boundaries of rhyme or rhythm.This is just a blind grasping At the unbroken fence of time.Prose was always just a way to imagine what was on the other sideWhile all these written verses are the casualties of the clutching:The scraped knuckles, the splintered hands,The valorous, timeless attempts To conjure a world without a fence.1/1/20
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs
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