Untitled, Iambic Pentameter
A sound; a beat; the words flow from my pen—A voice to paper that had once been mute
A distant cry, perhaps, from years past, when
I struggled to express things more acute
Still, purpose lies in rhythm, turn of phrase;
A beauty locked in tightly woven glyphs
A trailing sentence, winding through the maze
A line to anchor soul outside of myths;
We strive to tell a story yet untold
but what is story if not all the same?
No matter how the language may unfold
A picture knows itself, despite the frame.