Sonnet III
Outside of his remit he gave gift
Expressively from the exclusivity
Of executive avatars, for a rift,
Immortal wound, as with a trinity,
He created in the affairs of spirits.
To what purpose do these wired hands fetch fire?
A plexus duty the fuelling inspire
To a passionate steal he bore in grits.
From these black hounds you flee, a thieving hare,
For you’re accused of an immortal theft,
Done, from hearth of the gods snatched a flare,
Heading so fast by the road at the left.
Shall these demonic winds out of this way,
Your palms unable to bear make you stray.
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