Will structure be the death of every poem?

A sonnet

Will structure be the death of every poem?
Do limits only function to oppress?
Or do these walls provide a humble home,
A ceiling to enhance, not to compress?
Imagine inspiration as a tree,
the sun and water only help it grow.
But grown within a forest, it can’t be
itself, but simply one within a row.
Will all these words ever belong to me?
Or are they borrowed just because they rhyme?
A caged bird cannot ever think it’s free,
but melody is tuneless out of time.
It seems the questions are in fact the task.
The answer is the willingness to ask.

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