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Your poetry now smacks of prose
In rows of tetrameter verse.
Your language doesn’t shimmer now.
Imagery is dimmer now.
No theme reveals like Palantir.
No metaphors lift Mjolnir.
No similes provoke like wives.
Enjambments slice like mercy knives
Beheading harakiri lines.
Your rhyming’s timing undermines
The climbing tension’s priming signs.
By choosing conversative styles,
You’ve blunted other crafting tools,
Forgotten how to mend the rules
To rend the screen of mundane thought.
Arise! Don’t let your poems rot.

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