She thought how life could be unfair
Bonded to the ironing station,
This token of her expiation
Under sister's solemn glare.
How difficult to not dispair
Knowing she could no longer bear
The searing pain of conflagration
She brushed aside a stand of hair
Put down her iron, as to prepare
And fight against her deprivation
With one almighty confrontation
When I started this challenge I knew that was exactly what it would be - a challenge. What I didn't realize was the enormity of it and how the focus on rhyme can interfere with creative flow. I can look at this poem, for instance, and see its flaws immediately, what I can't see are the words that might remedy this.