Freeing the verses of the stoic man;
Should enliven the tongue and be a gift to the fingers.
Instead it’s a box forcing the untethered voice from conformity.
No longer bound by the restraint of the rhyme it generates confusion.
Should I break lines at the quatrain or simply continue the thought.
This reads like an undisciplined sonnet caught in a selfish voice;
Trying to justify its end’s by its means or is it?
Alas poor Yorick laughs from his grave.
© 2011 Michael Yost