Passage plotted, journey sound
Second glance, errors found
Polished line, diverted track.
Tempo gained, no baggage packed
Fixing form, omitting worth.
Value spent while tweaking verse.
“Mind the gap!” Conductor calls
Platform crammed, no one boards.
Hollow train departs from station,
Deprived of final destination.
My poem’s soul is more important than its tempo. Love is raw when unedited. “Just so” prunes not tunes.
I’m constantly fighting to keep the heart beating from start to finish within a poem. Syllables, syntax, pace, cadence, assonance and alliteration are a literary defibrillation.
The parameters of pentameters leave me with a page full of empty words.