In which the narrator is very slow to get to the point.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

A plan discussed is often left to rot
Or simmer into scents that time forgot,
Before fruition fruits to –ition, yet,
Even when telling stories of regret
Where heroes falter ‘fore they hit the mark
Or even see the place the mark would park
When looking for a muse to feelings spark,
We must progress lest tired eyes despair
From couplet after couplet without care
For those that crave the structure of a plot
Or characters that reason with their lot,
Seeking improvement and to action take
In service of their misery to make
A better life, or world, or something grand
That poetry should grant me as my brand,
Being as I write like any minstrel, trite,
Tunic-ed in brocade and pant’loons tight,
Singing a sonnet when his feelings brim
Or when the whispers whisper whispers grim,
Cascading clauses he must bring to close
Lest halfway through this chapter I disclose
My lack of true direction for this piece
And far outstay my soonly ending lease –
Already March in Twenty-Twenty-Four
And Summer’s left with wafts of petrichor
And still our bitter pen must spin this yarn
(A meta-medieval bildungsroman)
Berating sorry ears with rhyming slurs
In bathos slips that all too oft occurs
Like: “when this bitter truth made know its woe
It struck him deep and beat his spirit low.”
Or, “write a book that none shall ever read?
To bear the dust as doth the tumbleweed?”
And not to mention, “Oh, you’d die! You’d die!”
When riffing on a boysenberry pie.
Yet still we do enjoy our metered craft
And think it time we spin the final draft.
The...