Pleasant Pain
Asunder have all my classical forms and themes been torn,
Who tore them?
Who destroyed them to bring the poem down to the earth?
Yes, I did.
It is I who is now cold like a fully unthawed polar ocean,
No longer a wrathful wrangler,
No longer bold.
The neatly shaped rhyme and rhythm of verse is now
Like a frail vase, clasped by a frailer fist,
Falls only to get smashed on the floor
To sharp smithereens.
When undaunted I trotted upon them,
Found my feet hued with
Beautiful stains of love.
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