Pleasant Pain

Asunder have all my classical forms and themes been torn, Who tore them? Who destroyed them to bring the poem down to the earth? Yes, I did. It is I who is now cold like a fully unthawed polar ocean, No longer a wrathful wrangler, No longer bold. The neatly shaped rhyme and rhythm of verse is now Like a frail vase, clasped by a frailer fist, Falls only to get smashed on the floor To sharp smithereens. When undaunted I trotted upon them, Found my feet hued with Beautiful stains of love.