I loathe this form; it's just that there's
no beauty here; it grates; and too
much set in stone is just too much
for me. I prefer free form;
there's nothing in this thing that's real.
Free form wields no grueling laws.

I just don't see the point in laws
for verse, or any art. But there's
a cogitation I've had, too
ethereal for humans' much
too heavy thought and word and form;
escape from everything that's real.

They drag you down, these gruesome reels;
they chain you to the floor with laws
of what to do; and when; and there's
no hope of leaving once you're too
embedded in it. Pretty much,
you're doomed to live with your real form

unless you, in your sorrow, form
some kind of wall in front of real
that you can hide behind; where laws
will simply be deflected. There
are painful weapons waiting, too,
outside the wall to add as much

to your sad, lonely plight. And much
as your poor brain would like to form
the thought of friends against real
life, battling against these laws,
the frightened truth of it is: there's
nothing realer than these two:

you mind and what it chooses to
exist. It doesn't help you much
that all around your huddled form
the weasels are advancing; real
life closing in with all its laws,
creating this sestina: theirs.

There's too much form and law
here. Too dry and harsh; unreal.