I believe I have found my calling. It is a calling that, though requiring strict discipline and steady wisdom, will lead to unfathomable rewards. What is this calling, you might ask? It is none other than swing dancing. That's right. I am going to start an organization to benefit the rhythmically challenged. I shall certainly be the foremost member, but what rhetorical energy I have shall be devoted to encouraging the crestfallen and downcast, those lost in the shadows of the graceful and elegant, those like me; for when I attempted this arguably simple dance, recalling what moves I could from past swing experiences, I began to believe that perhaps something was wrong with me. Didn't I have the same ability to understand directions that others had? Then why did my hand go one direction when it was supposed to go the other? Why did I lead the girls with whom I was dancing into fitful missteps? Happily, my unsuspecting partners were forgiving. Not me. It will take years for the scars to heal, and no one will know my pain more deeply. This is why I now commit with courage to creating an organization to assist those like me. This is my destiny. This is my calling. I ask that you join me. Thanks for reading.
This wasteland cold and dark runs free Its fearful creatures speak to me One fateful day one nudged my hand To set my eyes upon a tree He knew I could not understand For I was in his native land His signs became our common speech To lead me through the deadly sand Now stuck I saw him me beseech He could not lift me out to reach The firm foundation of a cave Outside the boundaries of this beach Withal, the beast became more brave To risk his own my life to save To carry me, its life it gave To carry me, its life it gave. This poem was inspired by Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." That poem, like this one, has four four-line stanzas of eight syllables per stanza. Its rhyme scheme is AABA BBCB CCDC DDDD.
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