I’ve taken a sickle to my heart, to harvest the grains of Love. And I’ve crocheted a garment of passions. Here Is my soul, intoxicated with the leaven of hope. May the future be kind to this longing fantast, for I’m Perishing within a hedge of visions, wrestling with Reality. Thus, I’ve composed a sonnet for the vinedresser, Requesting she tend to the soils of my being. O what An acidic web, tearing into the limbs of my spirit, Compelling me to trek aimlessly through the marketplaces. I’m mocked for my naivety, held in contempt, bombarded By a barrage of rumors. But I’ve enshrined perfection, Despite vivid wounds. I’ve invested the bank of my Soul, basking in the rays of uncertainty. Thus, I’m Chained to the malaise of love, woven to flame.