Breaking Rhyme II

My resolution was to break up with rhyme,
but it’s rheumatic,
mathematically embedded,
ache to my arms as a
heart is to poets, soulcrushing
loneliness spotting a
lady ‘cross the room.

I was resolute in shunning
the wordplay of wondering
who belonged together, which
pairs would last
forever after first
infatuation.

But while my bitterness
with limericks
feels lived in, a home,
a place to raise my monsters as
little humans, full of hope,
that resolution was born
already old
and grey;
rocking cradles,
robbing graves,
the antithesis of all
youth’s
prose recorded on
a single page.

Resolutions are my latest phase,
but rhyme,
forever.

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