To Poetry

I had once been bound

Not by rules, nor by tyrannical hand,

But by my own heart.

The bindings were not unwilling.

I was not held against my will,

But bound by my heart with the fetters of passions.

And, those same passions

Found their way onto the pages of my notebooks.

I filled up more than I can remember

With words of you and what you were to me -

My love and my lover,

My passion and the object of the same,

My heart and my soul,

The north star, the morning star,

The dusk and the dawn.

Somewhere along the way,

As I made my way from novice to poet,

I wrote as those who had gone on before,

Those poets ancient, riddled much with rhyme,

Who did create great rules for rhymer's work:

Rhyme for the sound, and metre for the time.

But, as I learned of finest poetry,

I lost my love, my passions, and my heart.

I babbled on in rhymed cacophany,

Forgetting where I found the blessed art.

I wrote to please the rules, to satisfy

The rigid structure of that which is done.

But, now I wish to free myself again

To come again into my poet's home.

So, once again,

I will write not by the structure,

Or rather, by the obstruction

Of men who are long since dead.

For, they had their chance with passion,

But it died with them. But, my passion

Is still alive.

It thrives on the fire

In my soul still kindling,

Though slightly dwindling,

Still barely visible swindling its life

From the cold outside

Which only seeks its end.

Once again,

I will return to my poet's home.

For that home is you,

As it has been. Who else?

Who, more than my flower,

Blooming like Persephone in the spring,

Could make my heart sing

The tune it sings for you?

This day,

This hour,

This moment,

If only for a moment,

I will bare my heart,

Lending its all to this art

So that I might once again be bound.

Bound by freedom.

Bound by my own heart,

By my own passions.

For you are that same heart,

And each bout of that same passion.

And this poem is for you, my love.

So, if I never again am free to write

With all within my soul,

Know this, then, is my heart's last address,

And know that, for the moment,

If only for a moment,

I wrote of all my hopes and desires.

I wrote of all my passionate fires.

I wrote of each thing which brought me a smile,

Of each step I took on each mile

Toward that which I want more than anything else in the world.

Know that I wrote of you, my love.