| I tried to make a
perfect line
It left me dumb. I failed. The impotence of my metered rhyme Had quite quailed the fine Control I hailed. I lose the music that I loosed In binding Lose the soundness of the knot In winding. Still I try, until the rhythm Chatters in my brain The rhymes come fast And then again But the slow sweet whiling sense of what I feel is lost in form Corseted into a stiff uncomfortable shape. I can't conform -- And make a poem. The mathematics that circumscribe
the human soul
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