Prose says “hi, your iambs are wild,
your rhyming and timing is getting me riled!”
Verse says “wow, your freedom from bounds
and sounds is down, I’m sticking around!”
The two make a couple and live in a bubble,
no muddle, no trouble, just one happy huddle
of backwards and forth, a bridge and a chorus,
a ‘roar-‘til-you’re-hoarse’ forever and always.
Then things change. Prose looks ashamed.
Naming the blame, “I can’t play your game!
Its rules and jewels for pompous fools …
I can’t get fuelled … It’s not what I … want.”
And as quickly as they clicked, the dissonance rips them apart. Two parts of a whole with a hole in its heart. Verse is distraught. She laments her fate to the tune of the taste of cold coffee that lingers. Catharsis. Denial has come, anger is here, and acceptance will surely be found … But verse’s plaintive cries arise once more, for, not a paragraph later, her late love’s lies lay bare the naked truth of the matter…
Vision of symmetry, foreign extravagance,
Classical style with an air of intelligence,
Rules by the textbookful: Prose’s new darling. A
version of verse by the name Alexandrine. Ah.