Late at night I stir the pot of fate Following an afternoon of discontent "What difference does destiny make?" I dine, a meal seasoned with hate Gods sit silently at my round table but don't partake. I scan my plate In search, I imagine greater goods Then I look to the Gods and wait "Please! Say something!" I lament "What difference does destiny make?" They rise to ascend; I resign to my fate
“… This 9-line poem doesn’t have any rules as far as meter or subject matter—just a rhyme scheme: abacadaba. A possible variation would be to keep the “r” lines as well and make them refrains, though I guess poets would then be writing a magic 11. That’s right! Just remove the Rs from “abracadabra,” and boom! A new poetic form.”
Poetic Forms – Robert Lee Brewer
