I seek a love—her name is Poetry,

That she might here indulge me with her charms

And sing sweet songs or whisper breathlessly,

Caressing me in loving lyric arms.

There may we bide in mighty metaphors—

Castles grand with turrets that touch the sky

And wrap ourselves in silken similes

As king to queen we so apostrophize;

Or might she be my secret paramour

Where we on moonlit nights might ever meet

And dance away the stars until the morn,

To wake in idyll grottos, cheek to cheek.

Her sobriquet will be ‘my little song’…

Two hearts in rhyme, together, ever strong.