The Point of Poetry

Why must I
Attempt to capture
Every rapture,
Or simple pleasure?
The weather
Is there to be enjoyed,
Be it fine or wet,
The joy of a beautiful day
So easily be destroyed
By a poor rhyme.

Will not stay
For the poet who,
In rhyme
Describes her black stiletto shoe
And oh so short skirt,
(although they
Did nothing do,
But flirt).

The beauty of a Christine,
Or a Claire,
With their luxuriant hair
Survives, pristine,
On the page,
Whilst they,
And the poet
Turn grey.
Then, fade away.

In rhyme, we leave something behind.
A part of the mind
Lives on,
Although we are gone.
Perhaps that is why
Spend so much of my time
In rhyme.


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