What then is there left to say
in some new poetic way
about these prosaic times
within a pure mosaic of rhymes
For poems of true love
are as antiseptic as a glove
full of blushing sighs
staving off inevitable goodbyes
Since I have seen my petals fall
being backed against every wall
by longing just to be held
feeling the unfelt joy of being meld
But the romance of our times
is just a dull sack of dimes
nearly quite as thin
for making my dreams begin
So, I gaze out into the night
seek to feel something to write
once more left here on the brink
once more hopelessly out of ink