ode to a poem

the rock at the bottom of the lake is a poem,
the "ohs" and "blues" smother it
and the words, the words "rainbow,"
"color," "red," especially "red" cut into the rock
and deform it;
it doesn't look like a rock anymore.
a broken poem, a square instead of a diamond,
now at the bottom of the lake,
hard words and soft words make it
smooth on one side and rough on the other,
and the rhymes, rhymes of "bay," "way" and "day"
choke the once clear rock,
the once sleek gray slate,
sparing all of itself for me,
and thrown into the lake
it is now festering,
polluting it,
the sounds the colors the form the feel
the sounds, oh the sounds all destroyed it;
its stench permeates the water, reaching all the fish
and they will soon smell, too,
be swarmed with disease,
famine will be everywhere because my poem,
my rock is a square instead of a diamond.
oh the rock at the bottom of the lake,
my poem.