This can be a problem.
The trouble with poets is
They’re prolific in verse.
Some of it better
And some of it worse.
And if you indulge as a critic one-time
You’ll find yourself covered in mountains of rhyme.
Alliteration
Both poignant and pungent.
Macabre metaphors,
Rare and redundant.
Sinewy similes — you could just chew them.
Full measured meters that thump till you spew them.
Soliloquies eloquent,
Tragic verbosities,
Unique vernacular,
Tongue-tied atrocities,
Sonorous syllables, words bold and words cautious,
To tantalize senses or be found obnoxious.
When –
Leaping out from the page,
blest surprise!
Words wonderfully written
bring tears to your eyes.
Sigh.
If that weren’t enough
There’s the after-discussion.
Did you catch my meaning?
Could you feel the percussion?
Till cross-eyed and weary you come out from under
To ponder if life is a grammatical blunder.
Forgive me my friend
As I set this aside.
I’ve more than absorbed
What my thoughts will abide.
The sun is just setting and won’t wait for me.
The Great Poet speaks and I want to go see.
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