There can never be a right way,
To start this particular poem,
The nights are dark again,
And I am but a whore of hope.

There can never be a right way,
To end this poem either,
Who am I to decide the pauses,
When you decided the course?

Am I violating the rules now?
Are we a verse more
than originally planned?
Are your cold feet turning numb?
Too many questions now,
And your absence branded.

Another verse should not hurt now,
I have so much to say,
Your punctuations make me think,
Before I leap across these spaces.

Why stop now? These rules flutter
We can go beyond rhymes,
Riddles, heartaches and verses,
For they are nothing more than
A tired man’s pretty persuasions.