Sweet labour
His words are sewn with lace so gracefully,
embroidered silk and cotton is his tongue.
His woven riddles wrapped in mystery
are satire from which questions have been hung.
He sows seeds he hopes will spring in time,
as lyricisms speared and pulled with thread.
The toil of diction, sweat of reaping rhyme,
feet aching from the metre he must tread.
His rhetoric is blooming in the night,
deep musings turn to flowers on his shrine.
The buds all burst in couplets as he writes,
they flourish into poetry divine.
Is this sweet labour blessing or a curse?
Being forced to fit the perfect form of verse.
