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

Time
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
Age,
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
I
Spend so much of my time
In rhyme.