Unrhymed

I do not like intrusive rhyme,

never will, I must confess;

it sends my synapses firing,

obnoxiously clustered terminal

sound

resonating abstract emptiness,

hollow clanging in my ear,

eep, eee, eam, ain, eeeeeee

screeching in my brain,

while I long for language that

lets me breathe,

find my own cadence,

leisurely lollygagging through lines

unwinding,

unhurried. Effortlessly flowing

liquids and glides, aspirating

gently through my mouth,

lazy tongue fondling teeth,

whispering into lips

to make a gentle noise,

mellow in the ear, delicate particles

of sound weaving into

waves of acoustic information.

Alliterative literature

pleases me and eases me;

delicious little internal rhymes

lift the corners of my lips,

but nothing is better

than a metaphor.