writing is my fever pitch
throws out my faux discretions
and somehow finds such lines and stanzas
a list of bold transgressions.

in words without a fever at all
but full of reason and rhythm and rhyme
of course i'm speaking of yours
not mine.

at times they miss the time they spent
in the queue that never moved.
For action would mean desperation.
or worse, a love disproved.

because, you see,
i am prose, and you are poetry
i fall between your meters and metes
unable to fit your soliloquy

and at the bottom, there is beauty that these syllables do make
when they are free to flow as they will.

without rule.