Rhythmic poetry echoes our own rhythms
The way the heart beats and the flow of blood.
Music is biology at play
The joy of being alive is well and good
There is no no need for willpower and its strains
Does the River have to push itself?
Does the tide need training who could tell?
Imitating these is poetrys stealth.
Overwork is easy but it’s wrong.
Distracks us from the pain of life and death
Both can come together in a song
Let your mind be vacant till you find
The evidence that there is another mind
How my heart sings 