I feel I am on the cusp
My chest tightens with such angst
As if I stand before yawning gulf
Yet my muse I must needs oblige
With the writing of this latest opus
And try as I might to get into the rhythm
I know am out of my depth
Still I launch myself across the width
Across the breadth
Searching for something barely glimpsed
As rare as Yttrium
As pure as silver
My eyes seem covered with an obscuring film
And though it may take me more than a month
I burn as from the heat of a kiln
Awaiting the ignition of that bright bulb
But I sit here a poetic half pint
A mere plankton
As I realize that nothing rhymes with orange

Craig Allen
© April 2011

04/14/2011

Author's Note: This poem uses the 19 words in English for which there is no perfect rhyme... just because I wanted to. I do so love a challenge.

Posted on 11/14/2011
Copyright © 2024 Craig Allen