It interrupted what I was writing in my head. This is a bit of a showy-off poetry form derived from the sestina, and is a tritina. Which sounds a bit like someone who should run a nail bar. So bear with me and my showing-off. It's good for my brain to engage with these different forms.
This is the story. These are the bones
that grew in the shade, but still grew up;
that never were seen but witnessed all,
became a fortress and a cage, but all
that might couldn’t break these bones,
though made sure they were quite fucked-up.
So from this point there’s only really up.
I’m giving it a shot, a once and all.
I’ve got some stock; I’ll make no bones:
These bones are up to win the set, love-all.