By Bud Koenemund
I possess no gift with words; no powers
Magical, nor grasp on love's subtle ways.
Rather, too often rhymes linger, soured
Upon the tip of my quill, as fear plays
'Gainst desire. And, I despair respect
Will seem diminished by repetition.
Though my soul is frozen, I can't affect
Immunity to Cupid's ambition,
For you, Muse, have breathed life into my prose
With beauty and wit, pleasing eye and breast.
And, as sunlight serves to nourish the rose,
Your genius can feed emotion repressed.
The secrets of
passion surpass my ken;
But, thy favor revives my heart and pen.