When is a poem not a poem? When there are no lines that hold a rhyme? When there is no meter in its time? When chaos fills the sacred page? When senseless words are formed in rage? A foolish question, it surely is, To inquire as to a poem’s worth. A poem “is” when it flows from the heart, Exposing the writer from the start To slings and arrows launched from those Who have no role in the player’s part. What I write is first for me, To soothe the raging beast within Or express the joy felt at the dawn As I pick myself up and venture on To renewed purpose, or to carry on; While you, the reader, linger on. And, as with any form of art, It’s worth is measured by the heart.

Come now, the end is near! The Reaper comes to claim his own As the world groans its final breath, Succumbing to approaching death. Such power men wield with wisdom sure; Enraptured by their own allure. Rejecting order for their own devices, They were destroyed by their own vices.