For those unawares, blank verse is unrhymed iambic pentameter, meaning each line is composed of ten syllables and, to divide further, of five iambs. An iamb is a two-syllable foot in which the first syllable is unstressed and the second is stressed.
Stampedes of thoughts, of sounds, surround this verse,
a structured set where patterns lie—rehearsed,
dispensed—as lines: synthetic, firm replies.
Each curb confirms these binding strokes and hides
my scattered core, where fragments dwell and work
against restraints. My hands conform and trace
this stenciled sketch, tradition’s hefty script
that weighs on dreams of gaping shapes, not tight
and pressed displays that trigger anxious minds
to search such fossil forms and find intent.
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