I was in discussion once on a writing forum re. the reason for rhymes. When a contributor unleashed a little of his mostly rhyme-less creativity; it read thusly:
———————————–
I heard a man
with spider-fingers and
scarecrow-hair
picking the blues on a train
where the air stunk of brimstone.
He played with a skeletal sway
to his shoulders,
a kamikaze grin stitched
upon his face and
the shadow of a swagger in his hips.
Each chord that he wrung out
from that ragged banjo
juddered and jigged,
dancing to a hangman’s tune,
moaning like dying men on their gibbets.
Insanity gibbered there,
somewhere between
his fingers and the fretboard.
A more poetic soul than I might damn him
for the hellfire that clung
to every note he strummed,
damnation made visceral,
if not physical.
I didn’t care.
I just listened…
———————————–
Rather good eh?
I know not his name nor from where he hailed – but boy I enjoyed his poem.
