The rhyming star is a fickle friend,
With mystic rays that shimmer and bend,  
Around and past the would be poet,
With fullest heart though none may know it.

Visions of beauty and scenes in his mind,
Are trapped without outlet and won't be defined,
'Till lamely he finds a flavorless phrase,
Lost in a labyrinthian linguistic maze. 

"I was not born under a rhyming star",
He howls in despair to the silence afar,
An echo returns with taunting and spite,
So he sets down his pen and calls it a night.