Twisting tendrils of realization
Run through my evermoving mind

Up unto the age of eighteen
I abhorred alliteration

The seemingly simple
Style showed, I thought

An easy way of writing
Whatever

Just finding fitting words
With meanings matching.

Untill I read The Raven
Poe penned what is

I think, the epitome
Of epic poems

All while writing, in a weirdly
Woven way

A story of love lost
Of wishing gone awry

So since then I sometimes
Try to match "my" master

And in writing wishes
With no reasonable rhyme

I uncover my understanding
Of my own simplistic stupidity

But beside that also, always,
Of how beautiful a language loved
Can be.