Apologia

I have

A clinging vine of adjectives climbing up my wall,
A piledrift of infinitives where dead leaves ought to fall,
A parallel narrative that lurks beneath the floor,
A raging mob of metaphors behind the closet door,
An unruly pack of synonyms howling in the flue,
A suspect caricature stirring pepper in the stew,
A pathetic foggy fallacy with atmospheric rain,
A cobweb of symbolism on every windowpane,
An army of iambics all standing in a row,
A chorus line of unmatched feet that don't know where to go,
A ghost of a plot structure that daily groans and gripes,
A petulant allegory banging on the pipes,
A snatch of a lyric running circles in my head,
A solid ton of irony weighing down my bed,
A rogue alliteration at the tip of my tongue,
And the best of intentions, when all's been said and done.