across the pages, towering and slow, the words and phrases, measured and precise; the aching, felt first centuries ago, contained within a uniform device that tells what beats and syllables to use. although some variations are allowed, some things to add, a few that you can lose, pentameter, both lyrical and proud, contains within its limits, all the joys that human kind can feel, as well as fears that join into our hearts' increasing noise, this golden mix of love and hope and tears. these voices, who could not imagine us, that we don't understand, but still, discuss.
while little we predict may yet come true, we confidently state that this or that is bound to happen, plain as blue is blue, and rarely see we're wearing the tin hat that indicates we may be way off base. but reinforcement comes: the internet is good for that. whatever be your case there's someone who agrees, and who'll abet. so being wrong's a cottage industry: a chance to bark, to posture, and to fight; we join into this ill community and rather would "be right" than "get it right". but all of it's unreal, except the mess that comes from words carved out of emptiness