Poems don’t sell

Abridged its form, but not its charm, cherished beyond many a realm
A bard’s qualm, why his gems are traded free, in the bazaar of rhyme
For the proser thinks, it ends before it begins, how it fails to overwhelm
Prose by an inch, that trades in dollars, alas, poor rhyme, not worth a dime

No leisure of space, not a crowded place, its beauty, in its fabulous frugality
Every tiny space counts, every letter, comma, word and phrase counts
Poesy is a prose condensed, prose a poesy magnified, artistic duality
But by all holistic accounts, what poesy recounts, why prose discounts

A juggler’s binding job sublime, to stir magic and mystique in a rhyme
How it drains the nerves, and scrapes the heart, of a searching soul
A thought awaits or dies until rhymed, while Prose never lives on borrowed time
Hangs by rhythm, fickle fate of a rhyme, destined to live on the dole

Rhymester’s darling, proser’s design, betwixt fortes, they walk a fine line
Imbued with awe, Almighty’s creed, heavens can’t help, but concede
How mankind defined an art so fine, it blooms His garden come rain or shine
It rhymes of His glory, but its glory misspent, broke rhymester, unsung indeed

Why a pauper he should perish? A wordsmith shall never cherish
Oblivion the reward, for the labor of love, against the stream
His flair beyond the blemish, for myriad ages to embellish
He won’t sell his soul for a dream, in Lord’s care, may his poesy redeem

© 2015  VC

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