In sonnets all feelings encased therein
In the rigid traps of one’s own making
Construed to confine anguish and aching.
Trepidation--don’t know where to begin.
With a single hasty stroke of the pen
And in one uninterrupted sitting
The making of something unremitting;
A rehashed enigma time and again.
Much like the arachnid’s woven lattice
Of silky meshwork to inveigle its’ prey
Or perhaps as the cloudless sunlit day
Obstructed by an unwelcome stratus.
Though in the end my thoughts appear channeled,
I still sit here profusely disgruntled.