The King would leer
and see Caesar sneer
at the folly of loving fools.

Oh, how I know I long to
be made for love.
But in loving you
I am made an ***.
For loss of senses
becomes euphoria
and fairy madness
falls on my blind spot
in a tempest
even Ariel could not abate.
Winds would shred my soul
and see timber set afire
by the lightning of desire.
Using its light to play Othello
flipping white for black.

Oh, Juliet my dear
I fear my love for you
is just an act of suicide.
Still, I would die
happily, as all other lovers do.
For there is much ado
about nothing while
melted men of shadows
and scripted puppets
lose themselves
not in facts
but the opposite of that.
Love makes a poet of me
and a fool of us all.