No rails: no train. No pipes and nothing flows.
No lines: no frame for players' territory.
A cell's membrane, the cons inside will be
Constrained. Or like a cultivated rose
Tied to support, a guided beauty grows.
The sonnet's fourteen lines, a jail for me,
A frame, a grid, for creativity,
A straiter jacket far away from prose.
But prison walls can make a poet feral
The metaphors so mixed they're liquidized.
I've got to get it right: Constrain the rhyme,
The rhythm too. But what will be my peril
Is blurry pictures, overlapped, disguised.
I'll do time.