She was half past metrical
quarter nonsensical theatrics,
bordered south of burbled oddities,
fashioned herself enigmatically stated
whorling an overly zealous lexicon,
recklessly aimed for macrocosmos
bust a rhyme on defeated asphalt,
whereupon she never ceased to
waver from gumption's potential
'tween vast illusions of poetry
“The writer must believe that what he is
doing is the most important thing in the
world. And he must hold to this illusion
even when he knows it is not true.”
John Steinbeck
Categories:
macrocosmos, crazy, hyperbole, identity, muse,
Form: Free verse