Master Sonnet Turns the Lock

You were turning; you were
Bending; you were twisting.

You were bound and fettered
By the very writhing

Left you writhen. Dove home,
Breast warm, end days coming,

The bones that had a plan
Had lost their way, long since.

Propped yourself in your chair
Where you could spare far shores

A long, scrutinizing
Stare. Might as well live there.

No more swimming for you,
Isolated master.