A Puzzle Sown Poem by Sean Robert Hart

Open and shut, open and shut goes the door,
its squeaky hinges make the ear sore;
And when you stop it, a tantrum's thrown,
then you ask, 'What here has been sown?
How can I stay in the glove of the sane?
while my shadow himself is obsessed with the rain;
He must always hear the sound of the train,
but shrills when less intensities cause him pain.
\Many wonder the cause of this puzzle,
some claim to know, while others wear a muzzle;
Each soul affected is a snowflake,
whose will is hardly easy to break;
Try to get them out of their routine,
once you have, you'd rather lose your spleen;
One day they'll come up with an answer,
but a remedy will be as tall as a fir.