The Function of Rhyme

I write these words on her skin; plain paper
scribed with midnight ink; each year of passion
fills a diary with lines and wrinkles
as honest as the year is long. Each verse
describes obsession and repeats the lie
that blood is fundamental to all rhyme.

The friction of flesh on flesh does not rhyme;
but the sibilance of crumpled paper
lends alliteration to one more lie
about iambic pulses of passion.
It is so hard to trust romantic verse,
when veins grow hard and beauty finds wrinkles.

And yet, I compose an ode to wrinkles
and praise their facial pathways, though no rhyme
can do more than mock my intent; no verse
capture her true countenance. While paper
remains smooth and blank, I fear passion
will rip this page, so resort to a lie.

So often, poems tell a pretty lie
and hint at underlying truth. Wrinkles
on a poet’s brow reveal a passion
that resembles constipation. Each rhyme
is romance and contrivance. Waste paper
overflows the bin with my crossed-out verse.

I think of her and start another verse;
trace her veins, as if my pen is a lie
detector and these scratched spikes on paper
can measure her responses. Her wrinkles
relax into sine waves and inspire a rhyme
that conjoins repetition with passion.

Oh, but I have had enough of passion
and the palpitations of fevered verse,
which malinger and infect the poor rhyme
I have nursed this far. I tell a white lie
to soften the prognosis, like wrinkles
air-brushed from her picture in the paper.

The function of rhyme is to tame passion,
catch it on paper, hem it in with verse,
geld it with a lie and smooth its wrinkles.