When in whens the tirade in the rise;
A young blood bent in old tongue postulations,
The rhymes I sing reviling in sonnet verse
Seeking a higher opinion in all life`s aspects.
Oh!My faculty bent in poetic incantation;
Like the tyrant sun privileged to immortal glory,
Exempt from death and its inclination`-
My rhymes shall rise and be brutal in truth only.
A rhyme is but a thing of imagination spark;
The levell`d duty with objectivity unparalleled,
Whilst criticism is subjective and thus weak-
Itself sometimes at loss in down contend.
When in whens subject to self-contempt,
Yet new beginnings to find abundant.
