Suspicious
of ambition,
as goes with tradition,
visions tried young,
though eyes grown older

Bold with understanding,
untold of all preparing,
in wait,
though late,
pulled to the inkling
of the past romantic magistrate

Be it
a crown of stone or fire,
‘tis the iris that cannot retire-
ever verdant,
ever longer,
simple paranoia
still stronger than weak
unmild, not meek,
though better reason
should steer this soul,
far away from what is known
to fester melancholy,
born of moments sparse,
yet divine,
and want of joy,
stuck in rewind.