Acanthus Heart

There's a wild, spiky joy that blooms within my chest,
not a hard thorny rose, but an acanthus I'd suggest.
Its green leaves unfurl like laughter, keen and ever so bold,
a crown for this noble heart that suits me, so I am often told.

The world, a stretched canvas, splashed in a watery hue,
feeds this unruly bloom, as it sips the morning dew.
The sun, a sculptor and lover, gently kisses every thorn,
crafting its molded spirit that refuses to be worn.

I walk these wild Welsh hills, an aristocrat born of sodden earth,
I wear no crown of gems, but don a crown of honest mirth.
The wind whispers secrets through the ancient druid stones,
and my acanthus heart replies with echoes and joyous groans.

No damask halls are able to confine this sovereign soul,
these meadows are my palace, and laughter makes me whole.
In the stoic silence, and the invisible breeze, a melody remains untamed,
what a symphony of peacefulness, still wild and still unnamed.

Let others chase their gilded dreams - in their gilded cage,
Leave me to chase the sunrise - on this verdant sunlit stage.
For an acanthus heart, with its vibrant greens, and freshly woven sheen,
knows the greatest wealth, is a soul, that remains forever keen.