Notes on thoughts of a possible poem about a recollection (work in process)

I'm trying to remember the first time it happened to me.
Another childhood recollection
on which to hoist a poem.
The undercurrent of death and suffering
just sufficient to weight it in the water,
float it past a bank of readers
rippling empathy in it's wake
whilst carefully concealing all trace
of the callous, cunning enterprise.

Must be concise and original
when describing abstract, common pain.
It's bitter-sweet jolt, like a narcoleptic ninja
attacking at three o five am, clad
in full assassination nightclothes
-  is far too left field,
and the sorbet rush of cracked lemon cavities
simply dodges the issue -
using one pain to describe another.

No time to set the scene in poems, I'm told,
which is good,
the memory, in truth, is a scratch pen sketch
on the spine of a rented book -
too small to admit,
not some photo-realistic landscape,
meticulous in oils.

Fixed rhyme and meter must be resisted!
With their crafty bending of the facts to fit the scheme;
the reader skirting end-of-lines,
up and down, up and down,
admiring the needlework or casting for mistakes;
a mantric ti-tum ti-tum, clunking in the background
like an antiquated robot
with attention deficit disorder.

Try to avoid any accidents of rhyme, and
in this respect, it's lucky I was four not three
that it happened in the bedroom, on my hand
not on mid-leg joint upon the living room settee.

I'm toying with the notion of teasing the reader,
withholding direct mention of the theme
until the final lines.
A sting in the tail, if you will,
though that is an example of just the type
of hackneyed expression I will be trying to avoid
in the actual finished article.

Final note to self:
Do not try to be
too clever for own good.
Result will be messy.