(From someone who clearly loves words.)
Rhyme is at the wheel. No, rhyme is the engine.
There are no tired rhymes. There are no forbidden rhymes. Rhymes are not predictable unless lines are. Death and breath, womb and tomb, love and of, moon, June, spoon, all still have great poems ahead of them.
Rhyme is an irrational, sensual link between two words. It is chemical. It is alchemical.
And one particularly mindblowing sentence:
Rhyme frees the poet from what he wants to say.