Born to compliment, I pursue my place in life like a new moon seeking its home in the night sky, longing for the chance to glow upon a little corner of one’s heart, momentarily accentuating its true essence.
Eying words in the cloud of time, I ride Rocinante, climbing the slopes of the Grammarian Hills, only to retreat before Herme’s quill tip whose lexiconic threads banish me from a sentence of embellishment.
Still, I cling to the wave of hope, believing my destiny is not a tumultuous death upon the shore of despair, for I see the shadow of my dream glistening before me, Dulcinea, dancing in the mist.
“Weaving close to my heart, the salted pork tastes sweet” I utter, for silence no longer restrains my desire, suckling upon indifference, I flounder in a lover’s delight, for I am now an Isocratic dangling jewel.