Addicted to Poetry

Poetry is an odd thing.
Sometimes it has no verse,
With no rhythm,
And no meter,
And flows much like prose.
It may, however, have artistic beats,
A pattern followed with deliberate care
Composed of meter, cadence, beat or swing,
With lengthy sentences and careful thought.
And poems, sometimes,
Are peppered with rhymes.
And as the fruit in fall adorns the trees,
A poem may be filled with similes.
Or else the fruit of purpose from its core
Can plant in poems the seed of metaphor.
Moreover a couplet in deep contemplation
Can banter around with personification.
But the best part of poems, obviously,
Is when you include a hyperbole.
Alternatively, alliteration also adds appeal.
In the end it all combines,
Every aspect in its place.
This conglomerate of lines,
In amenity and grace,
Most effectively invokes
Such a thrill inside my brain.
Fire of fantasy it stokes
'Till delight I can't contain.
In a word (or maybe three):
I
Love
Poetry