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Made for Eternity

What is poetry, really?
Is it tossing random words around
Like confetti in your mind
And watching as they float lazily down
To land on a page arranged in a strange sentence such as
"Variety paints secretly senile flora"
Which will forever be a conundrum
To high school English students
Assigned to write interpretative essays
On such a profound statement?

Or is poetry all rigidity and structure
Where one must keep in step with iambic pentameter
In order to grind out Petrachan sonnets with lines like
"The world is changing even as we speak
And I believe the outlook is quite bleak"
Complete with requisite rhyme and perhaps a
Sprinkling of spontaneous yet sparkling alliteration?

-from "Made for Eternity"

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