This stilted, clumsy, metronomic song
Is but a battle 'twixt the mind and nib
And ink, and heart, to drip emotions strong
Onto a leaf of white, or gauze or bib
That what my mouth nor eyes could never speak
Here be diluted then distilled until
The wash of words obscures lost clarity
And draws the dripper to pretence of skill.
But why present this aimless verse to thee?
A burden 'tis decoding empty script
and why this rhyme, this form, this stumbling beat?
Were not sonnets left with lovers in the crypt?
Embarrassments aside, this is my stance:
My love for thee transcends all vague romance.
