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.
Maybe a tad over the top;-)