The sonnet's prison, fourteen lines precise,
a gilded cage where emotions entice.
A turn, a shift, the volta's sudden grace,
a whispered secret in a measured space.
The haiku's breath, a fleeting, painted scene,
three fragile lines where nature's truths convene.
A moment caught in syllables so few,
a universe contained in morning dew.
The villanelle's dance, a circling, haunting rhyme,
repeated lines that...
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