Although they feature in all of mine The death of a poem is meter and rhyme.
The order and control, the basic rhythm Acts as a guard against his prison.
So why do I use it? Well, it's easy To make something beautiful, light, breezy.
It's a frame for you to cover and fill The illusion of creation in an easy-to-swallow pill.
But why, then, do creation we crave? To write or sing something new and brave?
For as long as they can, our minds long to last Telling their stories of writers way past.
The structure, too, a locked room; Safe and secure until you try to move.
It holds you in, reforms and reworks And spits you out with forgettable words.
You try to be different but it punishes your craft Making your thoughts sound haphazard and draft.
Conform, it begs, no harm, no trouble. Blurring your meanings with entendre double.
We long to be different yet still we remain Mild, well-mannered, all just the same.
For they feature in all, yours and mine, The death of a poem is meter and rhyme.