I have a confession to make.
I don't know the first thing about poetry.
I don't know about the rules
The rhymes
The euphony
That add to its glory,
Its beauty.
I don't understand each category
That determines where each
Beautiful body of voice belongs,
Bracketing each expression of speech
Into a home.
I wonder where this one fits in.
Will it be accepted by its kin?
Or a distant echo
Of what could have been
But never came to pass?
No imprint, no trace,
To leave behind
And make an impression
On the minds of mankind.
My soul's strongest hope
And its closet fear -
To never be heard
Nor remembered
For what it holds dear.
Autumn shears my weary garden
Yet industrious summer doth pardon
Summer's residual, dusts with frothy mist
My annual saplings fruitful labors desist
Late season gratuities doth slight
Yet graciously freezes rancid blight
My well-manicured plot
Frozen mounds do clot
Branching tendrils secede
Anon, bracketing weeds recede
Each ballasting furrow
Into the ground doth burrow
All the burgeoning blooms
With callous frost entombs
Leaves that did with fertile juices flow
Now lie on shriveled vines sallow
The green, neon afterglow
With a tarnishing brown doth bestow
My ripening fruit once pungent and mellow
With a rotting stench doth bellow