Poetry in the Blood

by kiwisteveh

In place of blood, within his veins,
There courses poetry's rich gore.
Where limericks lewd and quaint quatrains,
With sonnets jostle, by the score.

In garret dark, with sharpened quill,
A cautious cut releases rhyme.
Now similes, like red gouts spill,
And metaphor compounds the crime.

Alliteration's lovely lilt
And onomatopoeia's rage
Do, like a knife sunk to the hilt,
Pour forth emotion on the page.

As darkness falls, his life-blood flows;
By candle-light he scribes his last.
A work of genius it shows,
But his faint flame is fading fast.

Now death upon our poet calls,
His soul is drained, his race is run;
One thought consoles him as he falls-
His greatest masterpiece is done.

As life's last embers fade and die,
The candle falls, fate's final joke;
Before his glazed and dying eye
The manuscript goes up in smoke.

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Quatrain Poetry Contest contest entry