My poem will go down in flames,
Its metaphors burning embers
Its anaphora, its anaphora annihilated, its anaphora annihilated carbon
My caesura – well – charred
Charred like a simile in Nero’s Rome
Or jammed like an enjambment
A Chicago allusion of cow hooves and
A lamp in a phlogiston of history.
My poem will extend its flaming comparison
And crackle and pop, crackle and pop;
Its onomatopoeia will blaze with alliteration
Sparks sputtering, scarring and scorching,
The assonance, oh only oxidized assonance,
An inferno of incandescence.
And it will smolder, a remnant
Like the devouring conflagration
Of London’s glorious Globe.
It will die in a couplet, a rhyming demise
Its words only ash, no hope for reprise.