Sonnet 1
Restrictive borders inflicted by rote.
Every function dictated by form.
A well laid path for ev'ry raging swarm.
Creativity held down by the throat.
It's chances of survival, quite remote.
A careful guide to which it must conform.
A crystal cage to hold the vicious storm
An empty pool in which it has to float.
Clinging to life by artificial means.
Despite the wind a glowing spark still burns.
Ignoring inertia the wheel still turns.
The unforeseen still moves behind the scenes.
Within forced constraints and narrow guidelines,
chaos and maddness still show some life signs.