A Poet

There once was a man thought a poet
He worried in rhyme he might blow it,
And struggled to count
The best metered amount
But then he lost the struggle and so what? 

So that poet he tried him some free verse
But when he was told he should rehearse
The words were unwieldy, and fearful then feeled he,
And more than just style he must re-verse.

“So what’s to be done with my writing?” 
Said he who was up
for some fighting.
“The meaning’s elusive,
My thoughts inconclusive!”
(The poet now a Muse was inviting.) 

“You think Spark is the secret to meaning?”
Laughed the Muse who awoke from Her Dreaming.
“I might be the pestle
But flesh is the vessel,
And you don’t need Me intervening!” 

The rules are my own, thought the man
Redefine them wherever I can
Coherence is fine
But genius is mine
When words I assign 
And tension’s my shrine
To image sublime
That shines crystalline
In sign / countersign
No need now to whine 
With thread or some twine
Stitch line after line
Release and confine
In layers design
Juxtapose and combine 
The verse must define!
So poetry stretched ‘cross his lifespan.