Frustrating Rhyme

Rhythm can I orchestrate a crime to wind you round?
Shouldering symphony of timeless delight have you nought for which you act?
Of ignorant aspirations that vain’ hopes of chance, which explode your dreams over your expectations.

Developing deep frustrations in rhythm’s lack of soul.
The skeleton is dancing at least as much as it wails in silence.
Such is rhyme without the word.
But who heard?

I asked you to enrich me from on high.
To amuse me, to not let it die.
I passed on watching you but I grew dim and I grew tired.
And my erect attention perspired and exploded into you,
From which I never withdrew.

And I demonise my own withdrawal to come out empty lacking food.
On which indulgently I brood!
Seeking your essence in mine own thought to enliven me to shaken me into thought.

What inspiration doth commence in sacred holds of cement,
Where I buried my previous poetry?

Yeats talked of aesthetic intrusions on the troubled soul’s illusions?
My perturbation in this assertion is what I don’t know for certain.
And why it claims such victims as I?

Cascade, withdraw and such and so I die.
Away in hell of feverish dream letting it all go-by unseen.

Until now I wrote it cold, full of friction, full of mould.
But to write in frenzy all around in itself.
Its own creativity doth abound.

Henceforth a work to come from its own demise a poem rising in its own lies.
Makes sacred the repugnant and the dank, a prostitute then of superior thanks.