I held the page as though it were shame,
contained in metre, measured in its breath,
each syllable obedient to name
the old inheritance of love and death.
The rhyme was scaffold, strict, unbending steel,
a frame to bind the chaos of the mind,
and yet within that order—pressure, real,
a trembling urge to loosen, to unwind.
So words begin to stumble, break apart,
not fitting in the cages of the line,
the rhythm falters—
I can’t keep
this march of steps,
the rhyme
drops
away—
And now the voice runs ragged, spilling
without map, without compass,
a river swollen past its banks,
tearing down fences
until only the raw current
remains.
Song version:
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