The Mastery of Rhyme by Danil Rudoy

A decadent and renegade,
A fool whose life has just begun,
I am a Jack of every trade,
And quite a master, too, of one.
Its name is rhyme; its time is brief;
Its reach is far; its touch is deep.
It may release the heart from grief
But to condemn the soul to weep.

Rhyme is a strong aperitif
Which no impostor can afford.
Each compromise you do forgive
Comes back and hits you like a sword.
There lies your conscience, cut and slain,
And in a string of scarlet drops
You jot apologies again
Until, at last, the bleeding stops.

Each time pride launches the attack
While modesty assistance brings
And courage, as behind your back
You hear the fluttering of wings.
You’ve undergone a major stress,
And yet, the pain will not decline
Now that you venture to express
In words the hellish and divine.

The pressure’s getting quite extreme,
There’s hardly room to up the stake.
You jump around from dream to dream,
Not knowing where you will awake.
But, as the vagaries condense
Around a single striking plot,
The muse extracts a finer lens
And finds a fatal flaw to spot!

The spark of heavy doubt may flash
Within, uneasy to discard:
We’ll cease for good, and we’ll be ash,
Why should we even try so hard?
Your labor could be lighter, true,
Yet you will reap but what you sow.
Remember: all we carry through
God can imagine better, so

Refine your taste, remain alert
And never scorn the perfect rhyme:
Such is the science to avert
A waste of literary time.
Well-done, my friend. You’ve passed the test;
Now, as the muse’s addressee,
Write something better than the rest
Will ever even hope to see!