Obsessed. The pace accelerates and slows,
in gearbox shift of clockwork calculus.
From three quatrains to couplet letters flow
in meter unimpeded–value this.
To write one properly, per Shakespeare’s haunt
you start abstractly at the top, then fold
a fold, and then a second fold to flaunt
your depth, in dozen lines a problem told.
You’ve lit a stranger’s intellect afire
and cast a striking hue through window frame
and have but two lines left to build the pyre,
loose conflagration on joined thought and pane.
For sonnets turn to branding iron your lead,
its fire fusing scenes none prior’d wed.
I’m Puck / Danetreous.
I like to write sonnets.