metre’d out

Steal my muse from another time and you’ll have run off with my soul

It takes a village to be sublime

my people out  in metre’d  rhyme

prejudice of the nasty sort sees black in time of the vanquished sort

proclaimed by a maddening crowd

what do the pale know of color

it’s so last season that white is right, let’s out the baby and put up a fight

against these rules that give them clout

they own them all ,lets throw them out

and build the walls of a  model fort

spinning nothing at all in our own high court

the vacant halls will be our stalls for portraits of friends a la mode

who never come round for lack of sound

in rhyme as  beats the heart

          

                                                     amy whittlesey

May 2013