In the vestibule of youth, where dreams ferment,
They call infatuation “maturity”—how quaint.  
But I, a cartographer of sanctified time,
Refuse to mortgage my becoming for a borrowed rhyme.  

Let them chase trends like moths to neon flame,
I walk in cadence with my own name.  
Commitment, not to another’s orbit,
But to the constellations I’ve yet to inherit.  

This is the era of cerebral bloom,
Not of vows whispered in adolescent gloom.  
Why tether wings to transient winds,
When the sky itself awaits what my spirit rescinds?  

Premature pledges fracture the spine of purpose,
Stretching us millionfold from our sacred corpus.  
Love, when summoned before its season,
Spoils the soil—defies reason.  

So I remain uncommitted, not unfeeling,
My solitude is not silence, but healing.  
I am the free bird, not caged by trend,
My sanctuary begins where false rituals end.