Love Poem

“Why don’t you write for me?”
His eyes were painted insecure.
“Do you find no inspiration,
in the knowledge that I’m yours?
Do you shy from my shamelessness,
do you tire of my demure?
Or does your muse simply find,
that I am of no lure?”

So I sat scribbling words,
siren, and endless, and revere.
Sticking them together,
with an obvious veneer.
I soon saw a page,
wrote in someone else’s hand,
words I didn’t recognise,
phrases I didn’t understand,

Why can I write of dragons?
Of highborn wizards and heinous seers?
But I cannot pen an syllable,
about he whom I hold dear?
Just as doubt creeped in,
something occurred to me,
how could fabricate something,
that is so very real?

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