Espalier Divine

A sonnet is a plan akin
To a dream catcher in the night
Apprehending thought process flight,
On its way out, or its way in
Its customary digression;
A traipsing tumbleweed of thought
In dire need of an anchor spot
To prevent its retrogression...
With air brake caesura feathers
To slow mentation's hectic ebbs
Or rhyme scheming spider webs
To snare spirits, in all weathers...
On the circuitous sort of grid
Forever friendly to the id.