A Reason for Rhyme

I want my rhymes to weep and sing—
express nostalgia and desire;
thrust fluid verses from the spring
which flood the gates of Dante’s fire.

I want to sculpt my words of stone,
so each, when chipped, in fine detail,
may find a soul to spark its own,
and like Rodin’s pure art, prevail.

I want to brush my verses faint
with hues from Autumn’s falling tears,
and in Monet’s own Garden paint
impressions of immortal years.

I want to hear the spraying foam
from where fair Venus rose above,
and from her footprints on the loam
see rise the rhymes of mortal love.

I want to tame my verses wild
the way the cowboy tames his steeds,
then ride into the sunset mild,
with lasso ‘round my tumbling weeds.

I want to live in days of old,
when Nymphs and Muses plucked the heart,
and lit the torches brave and bold,
with fire from the rhyming art.

But most of all, I want to teach
all children in the here and now,
that all the forms are theirs to reach,
if masters verse to show them how.

For every dawn there’s end of day,
and like the rest, I’ll serve my time.
But rest assured, the world will say:
Morales gave his life to rhyme.
Written in 2005.  I can't believe it's been that long.
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