Sonnet CCLXIV

I cannot write in prose; I’ve lost the simple art.
Its sentences are hopeless chains I cannot move,
its massive paragraphs, the bricks I mustn’t use.
I love my dainty forms, succinct and sharply tart,
creative, flexible, compliant to my heart –
but structured if I wish. There’s logic in its shoe,
which taps a metre one may recollect anew -
but prose is sensible and sombre; rigid, smart.
I rhyme, creatively insert a spicy word;
but prose requires plans and links and sense to work –
the things I gladly flee. I lack the sanity;
I hate reality; I’d rather hide in scenes,
subjective to the viewer’s eye, and comforting –
than sketch my life objectively, and vividly.