Poems always baffled me.
To rhyme or not to rhyme
Just some or all of the time?
Or in the middle of a line? I couldn’t clock
The way the fickle lines just stop
Out the caverns of my prosaic mind
Lines snapped, mixed, fell out like fortune sticks
They spoke in patterns, mosaic mastered
Tasted good with emotions
And with wine
A paragraph falls through
Turns to a haiku
Cliffhanger clinches to a couplet
Looks suspiciously like a sonnet…
That was last Tuesday,
So I guess I write poetry now.