That tender reed.

I thought I could be like Shakespeare,  vanish, then reappear to burn, although my longing seeks me near in all the ways I yearn, I cannot leave this treacherous place that beautifies my aching need, from every flowers season comes, a due that tender reed , 

Seeds embedded in me know hath defined my lonely trails, But always have they been of joy and always upwards neither frail,
so I shall remain with hope enlightened by this pen obtained,  and withered not just like a rose, But deepest still my page is stained.