By: Glenn Marchand Jr.~

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.  


© Glenn Marchand Jr.. All rights reserved