I think I wrote a poem; the words, it seemed, were right.
I juiced the truth and worked it through, expecting sheer delight.
Questioning the length, I thought, perhaps a bit too long for some.
But the Masters wrote extended lines, so I thought, “That’s really
dumb.”
The subject, one of interest I felt, a truly inspired verse.
But alas the numbers tell the tale, making me retch and curse.
It seems my poetry failed that day, a belly flop into the icy bay.
But never to quit, this love of words, I’ll start another today.
Sitting by the fire, rhyming words under candlelight.
A subject I’ll need, be it lost love or perhaps chaotic fright.
I guide the quill and ink doth flow, petting the cat by the fire’s
glow.
And know in my heart, shorter pieces I’ll pen, and leave the longs to Poe.
