Woe to he who believes written words for him
With the cadence, softness, the romantic tones
He cannot be the recipient of such sweet verse
For no heart as beautiful is for him to belong
While his eyes widen with dream, each word read
He at least has one ounce, one spark of hope
He, however, feels doubt though he wants to believe
As her words are his manna, they help him to cope
Yet, what a fool, to think they are for him
Words such as these, the verse, for those blessed
But, for that moment, when submerged in each line
He feels not like a fool, but much like the rest