Lines of “fourteeners” or iambic heptameter.
“Armchairs in my brain”
Come heavily into my midst and in this sterile mind
Come sort the folds and pocketbooks of all I left behind.
It’s all just so and sharp and cold and filled with corners. Here:
Come douse the stacks of hardened facts and set fire to my fear.
The stodgy thoughts with pipes and beards which habitate my brain
May take their armchair theories and refrain to come again.
Cast fertile dirt o’er all the tomes which talk themselves to death
And let the wisdom bloom again which gives the spirit breath.
How heartily the bellows blow their tiny candle flames
Into a fire of nonsense which then stifles and defames.
So sort away the good of words which hasten truth to light
Enliven then the passion of a love meant to ignite.