A Thought on P(rose)oetry

Poetry.
Not bound.
By any. . . Strings.
But only by the love
ing strokes of the pen and mind of the poet


To be free like the wind
to blow where it wills
to forget about the staunch harsh
cords that bind

A love is formed in the words not rhymed
by the words not in meter or
at all visually formed
but only by the way they form a complete idea.

Like red,
roses, with a sharp bit of blood
pouring down the stalk, a cry for help
and tears of pain, beauty.

or wetness, in a blue cloak hides it mysterious
ness( ).
A monster, a flower, a ring of gold
perhaps a sphere of purity.
White.

or a tear, a crystal, a drop in a bucket
full of the tears of men.
it’s half full now but still filling
upwards. why?


Or a sound of fear
a sharp report, a trumpet, a siren
a whirling intonation,
of lights and drear, and
forgiveness.

or perhaps a rhyme that is a rhyme
of an idea, a thought or a dream

Like a pool of blood
a cloak that was scarlet
a rose that happened upon a crimson
sunset. Of red.

Of a deep night so
Black (ness) envelopes a(n)
empty (ness) minds play for the thoughts of
mankind was dying a
death (that) is not the end.

Thus is an imperfect study in
the Idea that all (none) of poetry has to rhyme
in the
least bit.