Each word a brick, cemented in the flow
Their perfect place defined by he who rhymes
In perfect pitch: he takes his aim and throws
His target never missed in any line
With no design, cathedral walls he builds
And calls for us to wonder at the shrine
He crafts with ever-climbing feats of skill
Imprisoning his limits in the rhyme
Construction stalls. And we are left with awe:
An echo of the thing that has been made
But, with creation currently on pause
The power of the architect will fade…

Though rhymer’s rhymes will stand the test of time
The rhymer’s rhyming witnessed is sublime