Versi Vecchi

My rhymes no longer come so easily.
And even if my pen does move, it speaks
in prose, now, far more frequently than leaks
the verses once so simply come to me.
This metered line, that served me readily,
is now too rusted with disuse it seeks
more to be buried in the solemn fix
of better times and bygone memory.
Regardless, let these stunted rhythms sing.
How close to death they be, yet hold their strength
in mourning of an age long fell apart.
And yet they tell me still, that such a thing
could bloom first into song, and then at length
a poetry grown forever in my heart.

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