The lost poem

Once in a midnight haze, came to me a perfect poem.

But I got drunk and by morning all I remembered was the thought

And that the number of verses was seven

So I set out ,

to recreate what I had dissipated as alcohol fume ,

The thought and the verses seven

In the means left to me by many poets of forgotten lore

first I strained my mind and strained the lire in true ancient

verse expressed the thought

But the rimes strained and the flow was wrong

And the verses in the end where eleven.

I tried again in different mood and different times with quill sharp

And soul set for that perfect number of verses seven ,

But the words expressed were very repressed and the idea ornate,

although close the verse count was eight .

Try again I did , stubborn and proud

This time no rhyme or rhythm

Freed the Idea of all bounds of antiquity

But still I failed for in the verses the image was lost

And they counted only five

Lost to me was the perfection that in my inebriated hour

I failed to write down .

In my insanity what I created , a sane mind burdened

By rhythm form or rhyme can never recreate .

 homage (to the poets of old)  Summer 2014