Rhyme

In the approach of serious matters,

rhyme is a distraction that only clatters

hollow, noisy emphasis on endings,

even if it causes the middle’s rending.

When it’s forced it gets no worse,

language mangled by a curse

that cares not for what came first,

obliterates it via verse.

Whitman knew this, broke the form;

art does not follow others’ norms

for the sake of untrained ears,

tossing salt to save the tears.

I abhor rhyme robbed of reason,

it’s a form of linguistic treason:

Language longs to lavishly linger,

tracing mouths with agile fingers,

and it tends to flee in shame

when sacrificed in rhyming’s name.

I prefer a last-line zinger.