As grapes grow on a vine, we become into madness. And, we do. The opportunities speak, where many windows close. And as Sun knows our meaning, what we can become is. We arise from our darkness and find our fuse. We ignite the ignorance, and burn into the night. We become of what we are not, as laurels earned. Wicked is the language that speaks in the darkness, and knows our potential. And yet, as the weakness in our souls, the harm is hard to wield. As fruits, we find our way as our calls to destiny.

We descend into sorrows without our calls being heard. One truth becomes many as we find the roads diverge from our home. We are one of a kind, but that finding becomes numerous as we amplify our dimensions. As virtues to form, we experience our pains there. As we admonish our skins, divine approaches. We are smitten in the corsets of our bindings, and the fruits that form from it. We become our nights then, and the sonnets that come from them.

We give heat to become, and then again and again.