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.