On the Holistic Divinity of Fixed Form

Alternate Title: A Cross Stick.
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Every marching iamb, lined in rows—
Looking for his “-ic” and matching rhyme—
Enters into packing which, when closed,
Glows with bright, transcendent light, confined.

All together found that were once lost,
Now within a blessed and holy form,
Counted, numbered, shined, and polished—glossed,
Every marching metric must conform.

In the end they come to paradise.
Soft and warm the end their marches reach.
All ascend, and so their souls now rise.
Lifted, they are dropped; they cry and screech.

Ill befalls—they fall, and so they must.
Essence trades them genocide for trust.