Most Poetry Is Very Formal,

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.