A poet sat in melancholy,
morbid, self-reflective folly
in the iron grip of writer’s block.
He found no words to grace his pen
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Tom- deep, perhaps to mysticly deep for the the crowd we are amid.Unigue rhyming pattern. Splendid last stanza.Tell the devil to go to Hell, we are going to keep on rhyming.Poetry without rhyme is like a body without soul. You did provoke much thought-10 plus
To rhyme or not to rhyme, that is the question - if none shall rhyme then folly be, for rhyming is true poetry. So we are all agreed on this then Thomas? ! Very good.