At end of day, the mania asserts
itself again, and she’s compelled to glean
the world of words. She casts about and flirts
with phrases till conceit emerges clean
enough to take its form upon the page.
And then she works with it and lets it flow,
and whispers it upon her quiet stage
until it dwindles or begins to glow.

And so the sonnets ooze and spring from her,
the words as often generating theme
as following ideas that move and stir
the maker who’s a fool for self-esteem,
the jester in the palace of her soul
who anti-reigning fondly gains control.