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