My tome has revealed what I knew as lies,
The way I have bent, even I am surprised;
I've brought up a friend, metaphorically called,
Where the realistic, to the abstract, has downfalls.
Look at this- the structure- what can it be?
What has this anthology done to me?
Where I once had a pattern, only madness is alive,
In my heart still though I hope to strive.
If this is my new way, then so let it be,
It'll evolve once again through anthology three...
(Thirteen lines for a poem, now am I absurd?)
Here are thirteen lines to spin out control,
The rhyme must be decent, a grouping, a whole,
Where you see the meaning, your own indeed,
Others may guess at what you concede;
No rules have I to float you along,
Except what you see in this 'elegant' song:
That's a set of six pairs, couplets alight,
Whilst thirteen, unlucky, will be sitting tight,
How can it be that the rhymes are so-
When the rhythm’s melody is only below?
Not metric, dactylic, but what do you hear?
There's my lilting indeed to bring out your fear...
Will you rise to this challenge I set to myself?