The Poet That Ran Out Of Rhyme

 

 

There’s a metaphor just beyond reaching

An intuitive je ne sais quoi

It’s a wave that was all set for beaching

that dispersed in a dearth of sangfroid.

 

It’s a mirror that gives no reflection

Like a clock’s hands too tired to turn

It’s a teacher that gives no correction

It’s our passion too frozen to burn

 

There’s an elegant enigma,

it’s a truth too hard to face

There’s a Stig that lost its stigma

you must willingly embrace.

 

 

We’re a forest too dense for the thinning

We are angels who’ve fallen from grace

We are planets incessantly spinning

We are humans that just lost the race.

 

I’m the hare that you froze in your headlamps

By the words that should not have been spoke

I’m a counsellor trapped in your Transference.

I’m the lover whose heart that you broke.

 

 

I cannot fit your convention

I’m the slave you cannot sell

I could yet be your redemption

If you have the will to tell

 

 

I’m a bow poising over a fiddle

An immortal who’s frozen in time

I’m a story that stopped in the middle

A clock tower forgetting to chime

 

I’m cynic become a believer

I’m an actor awaiting your cue

I’m a giver become a receiver

Still impaled on the passion of you

 

Please accept my intervention,

it is born of good intent

You could yet be my redemption

Will you give me your consent?

 

 

 

 

I’m a soul sacrificing redemption

I’m a straight line refusing to bend

For the sake of fulfilling convention

I’m a fable refusing to end.

 

I’m a hero that ran out of causes

A corner with nowhere to turn

I’m a sentence with too many clauses

A Nero with nothing to burn.

 

Won’t you free me from the Stigma

As the slave you will not free

You cannot be my redeemer

It is time you let me be

 

 

 

We are grief stricken, lost in denial

We are liars who ran out of lies

We’re like criminals facing our trial

We are Seers who blinded our eyes.

 

Did we share nothing more than our passion?

Did we just burn too bright for too long?

Tell me, why we discarded our compassion

Tell me, where in the world I belong.

 

 

I’m an elegant enigma,

I’m a truth too hard to face

I’m stigmata still bleeding with stigma

It is time that we embraced.

 

I’m a Sharman of deep comprehension

Tell me why I can’t force you to stay

Though I rave against time’s interventions

I’m still watching you walking away

 

I’m a Soothsayer tired of lying

But this is my ultimate crime:

I’m a warrior frightened of dying

I’m the poet that ran out of rhyme.

 

 

 

 

 

  1. No, the persona will never run out of rhyme!
    With such eloquence, I doubt.
    The beauty, the depth, the exquisite touch,
    The appeal of the poetry is beyond words.

    No, I do not believe the persona will ever run out of rhyme,
    And if he does, where in this chaotic world
    Would poetry lovers, draw
    The much needed food for the soul!

    Ah, no!
    The lines, a poet creates, will forever be
    So long as there are poetry lovers
    So long as there are eyes that marvel on the lines… Janet

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