I Never Metapoem

When I was young and learning how to write,
I was taught that poems had rhythms tight.
The words, the lines, the rules — they served as walls
And that without these strictures all would fall.

The rules, they said, were there to form a spine —
The art was how the writer, so confined,
Could nonetheless communicate a thought
Or tell a story worthy of a plot.

Is this a poem? Are these the rules?
This is a box. We are not fools.

This is a style of dress,
And though I must confess some attraction
To its rigors, a rigor without reason
Leads to death before its season,
A lack of breath and a quite a mess.

Though freedom leads to chaos, somewhere in the din
And ululation is an order of its own:

The soul,
Freed from its own tourniquet,
Creates a novel sobriquet,
Devours its own soliloquy,
Absorbs itself and then

In the wake of the cacophony
Exhales
Pauses
Inhales

And begins again

— Clio 04.10.21

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