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O who will free me from the chains of rhyme
so I may pick and play the notes I choose;
throw off the shackles of the metric line
and pen, with liberty, the words I use?
Why be a slave to formal modes of verse,
the sonnets, odes and elegies of old;
when I can break the bonds and so immerse
myself in finding methods fresh and bold?
Free verse, I own, gives greater scope to roam
the byways of the heart, the mind, the soul –
the poet may explore the earthy loam
of language and expand its vital role.
But wait, my cautionary Muse declares,
and learn to walk before you climb the stairs.

© Bill Fitzsimmons 2011-2012