I think, therefore iambic pentameter

 


You sang to me, your own peculiar throat
once held the throbbing waves of warm moist air.
The gentle rhythms rustled through my hair
and touched my soul; the pulse of every note
grown large and firm, the airy letters wrote
themselves at once so palpable and rare,
filling up the space in which we share
our lullaby, the waves on which dreams float.

But safely hid from these engulfing waves,
you've found a refuge off in exile far,
and I would hesitate to call you back,
except that deep within your winding caves,
your inward flame still burns without a star,
and your cruel shelter holds no want of lack.