A/N : Firstly, I never thought I'd be able to come up with this piece ever. And it was the most difficult task I'd taken up in hand, myself. This poem is a sort of face off between a rhythmic rhyme and a free verse. I've always preferred writing in rhyme, for rhyme and rhythm, meter and iambs have always been my definition of poetry. But lately I've realised how intriguing a free verse can be, for one of its best qualities of being able to be differentiated from a prose so smoothly. Now whenever I sit to write, I cannot actually decide which one to go for. So this poem, though an argument, is implicitly targetted at bringing out the beautiful aspects of both. I hope I could do a decent job in mingling the two poles apart poetry styles. Do let me know what you think of it. :)

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Assonance resonating through my veins,
Rhythmosonic symphony of one's pains.
Logophiles hunting for rhymes undefiled,
Eternal garms of paper-model styled.

And me?
Am I too old school
To be graduated as a verse?
Your orchestras can't always level my tracks.
After all, it's not your meter,
But a desperate beating heart that composes my tune
Through the rocks of its inner cascade.

"Old school" not, but a cradled neonate,
"Beating heart", true, but a beaten heart's bait.
Music, brook of perennial pleasures,
Sharing both blooming and glooming treasures.

Brook you may be,
But I, among your pebbles,
A free-floating mass of deformed phrases,
Donned in a cloak of emerald,
Kissing the shore, competing with algae, defeating in lustre,
Washing the blues of the poet's ink.

Progeny of prose, a prodigal son,
No bars, no dams, on a limitless run.
You, the generous donor of free will,
My goodwilled patterns placed in a peril.

"Poetic licence"-
You're no alien to this word.
For your rule-bound opuscules too overlook the rules of grammar.
Well structured embodiment of vocabulary,
Dancing musical notes like that of a beeping cardiac reader.
At times, a connection too entangled to build
With a heart of a simple kinship.

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[I am no referee to their cold war,
For free verse is my saviour and rhyme, my power.
This stanza, I do not wish to confine to a syllable count,
Free from every aspect, yet rhyme will always stand its ground.]