Novitiate

'twas an indiscriminate ramble
The scrambled poet had to write  
As intimations in a bramble  
All overgrown and outta sight.  
 
There was a trace of meaning there  
Struggling to stay upon the page  
And not abscond into the air  
Fearing meter to be the cage  
Where ideation goes to die  
Or whither at stanzaic doom,  
Like free birds with no wings to fly  
From euphony's well ordered room...  
 
Where phonemes daze and then confuse  
Fresh rhymers with a pious Muse.