DEATH OF A POEM

No hail to meter of iambic verse!  
The killer and slayer of passion
It's logic and reason eludes me now
My irrational self craves to escape 
it's rules! it's customs, that dictate my hand  

How gruesome! How grotesque! what ugly deed
What human feat deserves this tortured hell?      
Like thicket that hinders the flooded rush
of the crashing waves, the spinning billows
Like prickers that stick in the thigh 
of the corduroy of the hiker's pants
like oil oozing into a rippled lake
It's caliber seems worthless to my heart

Where the passion thrives like a feral weed
I romp! I frolic! and revel in green!  

So few moments when rules do not apply
When spirits are free to pillage the mind
When troubadours can scream the screams they hear
So I query, why drown in iambic?
When freedom of verse lies in the poet hand?!

Thus I exclaim from the bronze mountain tops!
No hail to meter of iambic verse
The slayer of passion that killed this poem 
Rage till only blackened ashes linger
Oh in the fiery pit of Hades may it burn!