I know most words of love are fantasy

Though still my pen compels me here to write—

Deep mining verse for gems of jewelry

To string on hope—a necklace of delight.

Perhaps bedazzled images entreat—

Proud lovers strolling down a promenade,

Or riding horseback on a white sand beach,

Cloaked paramours at some grand masquerade.

To stir a stolid heart with but a quill,

A pot of ink, deft strokes on parchment page,

Suggesting prospects far beyond  cavil…

In fear, igniting raw romantic rage—

But as a frantic moth that flouts a flame,

Quill pen on fire, I scribe on just the same.