I hate to rhyme

it's almost criminal
when really it should be subliminal

it's not meant to cough or choke or wheeze
more like being carried on a breeze

yet every time it's sleight of hand
that draws your eye from lines too bland

to hold their own
much less see their meaning sown

yet still we send you down that track
suffuse with all the clickety-clack

as though this time we'd set it free
from Hallmark's mediocrity

until the train comes into station
shocked by the lack of penetration

in hopes of a host of daffodils
and conceding to a trough of swill

that can not even find its finish
for which we all can only

do you remember when it was all just for you?

the first lines that came
and went to leaden rubber
blown away like leaves
on a winter breeze?

and the inks that followed
in their black certainty
drawing a map to colour
and completion

that neither cramp
nor blisters could deny?

now the cursor comes
and goes like rain
into a puddle

its steady pace
a slow handclap
of light

on the virgin page
that stretches
on forever

just daring me to put
words in your ear