With a heaving heart I cower at your pure aesthetic power,
Lost on some, but I’m devoured by your sea of symmetry.
Whitman wilted well-formed versing, many Moderns spurned it, cursing,
But I revel in immersing, swimming in your patterny,
Buoyant rhythms, metric tides, residing in your poetry.
–No, it isn’t lost on me.
Sad it is I hear so often, poets feel that form’s a coffin.
Will this hard line ever soften? Could another Edgar be?
So now I’ve finished, finished writing, all my thoughts I thought worth citing
While the Raven was inviting inspiration out of me.
While the Raven was reminding me of perfect symmetry.
–Never to be lost in me.