What is that pounding, wretched sound?
Like a heart, trapped under glass?
You can hear it from miles around!
What is that?
Neon mushrooming up from the blast,
the pulse was enough to pull us down.
Will it cease when we are safe at last?
I hate to say, I think it used to be a town,
before pools of light rose from the ash.
But underneath that pressured round,
what is that?
Good news, everyone--the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads has allowed the lovely runaway sentence. and me to present our format challenge over there every other week or so! If you care to watch me wax pedantic about poetry forms, this week I re-did the roundel. You can find the post here. This will bring some changes in the lineup, I hope, and if you've wanted to participate but haven't had that particular kick in the pants yet? Now is the perfect time.
Yes, this roundel is basically a joke. But it only took me five minutes to write. Perhaps this is the next challenge? Five-minute formats? What do you think?
