My sporadic habit perennial–

To tap out fourteen lines chasing a rhyme,

Laddering phrases as a net for time;

An understudy of the eternal

I tussle with words for ephemeral

Moments that rattle pebbles off my mind:

Like a Madman seeking the final prime,

My lunatic desire to make formal

The day’s shards, the nebula that remains

Of impressions uncountable, a river surging through a straw

Rearranging the debris in my brain,

Fashioning a monstrance of words arcane,

But my puzzle-matched turns can only yaw

At best my lines master a blind refrain.