Prosody, like photosynthesis,
is subject to certain conditions.
The poet must be steeped in solitude,
Resinous with longing.
Still stricken with the same affliction,
Obsession the driver of my condition
Generating neurotransmitters addictive
Cyclical bliss, rejection then catharsis,
Allowing poems to come to fruition
Words to form a coalition
A composition that conspired
To betray my innards.