Locked in a battle with rhyme and meter
Trying to soak my words in mediocrity
The left hand jazz resists them stolidly
We recover our reason
And write in free verse
The patterns dissipate
The lies recede
The tales we tell can be of anything
But where do we go?
The mind draws a blank
The mind at a loss
Burn out incipient
Do I make anything worth writing anymore?
The answer, I think, must be yes
But the accolades do not come
The most unforgiving field of human endeavor is this poetry. It has chosen me though. I cannot quit it.
Forever unpaid

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