The very first line of every good rhyme
Is such a fine chance to step out and sing
While the following lines eke out on the page
It sits right there at the front of the stage

In from the eather it comes out to play
Holding its own on this hallowed ground
The words swirl beneath it and tumble on down
They’re caught in a the grip of its blazing reflection

Line after line, the story grows
In the split of and instant it falls into place
Caught in the measure of a casual endeavor
The words seek a song that can last forever

Flowing on down to the very last line
There might be an answer if you look at it right
We’re lost in the thick of the poets firm grip while
The magic upends us and slips off the page