Writing in free verse is something. The kind of something that one does not quite know what to think about. Free verse could be compared to a little truffle, something delicate, exotic, invigorating; all the while tugging at one's little nerves and screaming in a tiny voice "this is chaos". Writing in free verse seems to be like walking down the street on a crisp day that embodies the essence of the autumn season and talking about the plastic pink shirt of the girl who just strolled by. The point is missed but the skeletal essence remains. It has no sense or rhythm yet we embrace it like it were a bouquet of  roses from the gardens of Paris. It takes our senses and pushes them over a cliff so they can feel the wind rush by as they plummet towards the seething ocean below; all the while whispering in a giant roar "this is unparalleled". Why do we construct madness and praise it for its discrepancies in the name of art while actually finding pleasure in its nuances? The bitter irony of the efficacy of free verse stands alone, like a carved idol on a distant island: never quite forgotten, always different, forever spinning stories. True poems are enduring, valuable, pristine but free verse has its place among the great works of diction. Words are more than  simple tools or cruel and clever weapons, -  in free verse they are diversions, pastimes, enigmas, and priceless.