mygreymatter

End Rhyme
I don’t write in rhyme.
It’s not that I think it’s a waste of my time;
my letters are best chosen,
make the most of emotion,
the greatest devotion
to bring words forth in motion.
Hold you close, in the same spirit
I feel when I hear it
speaking from within,
speaking of angels or sin.
So I do not delve hard
into measuring the yards
or the meters or inches
which my pen stroke cinches
in little tightly knit weaves
to catch like rake catches leaves.
Can you hear in this letter?
Can you say that I’m better
when the ends of my lines
come together in rhymes?
I see the words rising out like the wings
of partridges cooing at the sun with its rings,
right at dawn when spears of light fire forth
giving battle to winter’s cold wind from the North -
that peaceful, dawn-breaking song of the dove
means more in this moment than war, or than love.
It’s a sound you can hear with your eyes as you read,
the image gives rise in mind you must heed;
not my meter, my rh