Per diem, how many words can I compose?
And does it really matter, what do you suppose?
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Per annum, as the earth continues to spin, each and every meteor shower misses the mark of riding in.
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Per decade, my stories warp themselves, they find a wormhole to slither into, they often slumber in repose.
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Per generation, teenagers become middle-aged, they are replaced by other toddlers who are fodder for a new craze.
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Per mistaken identity, am I a man simply spewing forth? Or am I a human? A member with life force?
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Per one lifetime, poets are born to breed, additional tremors in the earth occur when these words reproduce and breed.
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That is the poetic effect.
