Metre'D Out Poem by Amy Whittlesey

Steal my muse from another time and you’ll have run off with my soul
It takes a village to be sublime
my people out in metre’d rhyme

Prejudice by canned retort sells mead in time of the vanquished sort
manifest by a maddening crowd

What do the pale know of color?

It’s so last season that white is right, let’s out the baby and put up a fight
against these rules that give them clout
they own them all, lets throw them out

and build up walls of a model fort
spinning nothing at all in our own high court

The vacant halls will be our stalls for portraits of friends a la mode
who never come round for lack of sound
in rhyme as beats the heart