If rosemary and sage are forbidden,
then a fortiori, must roses be.
If wine makes nonsense of our words,
then love sets the chaotic free.
Why are the lashes of self-loathing
mistreating a tenderest heart?
Yet most pompously stands an intellect,
posing as a heartless ark.
Opposing the engulfing ebb of fervour,
with the life of a decaying crate.
Why is a soul most chaste tormented?
How could a serenade intoxicate?
Remember the Parisian letters of Chopin.
The Scream cannot from your ascend part.
A sleepless spirit drowns in angst,
Perhaps, existing for a castle of art.
To thyself be true my friend