My House does not compare
to the residence of prose,
much fairer here--forever still--
wherein I hang my clothes,
the roof of this syllabic palace
is built to withstand critics,
for what defines a true poet?
who obeys the words he mimics,
the meter--electric--may vary,
middle form, sweeter I carry,
twenty-two walls and separate halls--
the mistress I someday will mary.
What is rhyme but a familiar face?
a self portrait,only half drawn,
the sun creeping over at dawn,
a hunter who longs for the chase.
An imperfect window, lost in time,
where the world cries in tune.
Imagine if the man in the moon,
fiddled with the freedom of rhyme--