Penning Words of Love For You
You always tell me how much you love my poetry
but is that the only reason you feel drawn to me?
I write Sonnets filled with love and romance for you,
adoring stanzas meant to caress your heart and soul,
but is it my rhyming words, or me that you cherish?
If I no longer wrote about the silvered moon in eclipse,
would your soft parted lips still want to cling to mine?
I could gladly write all day and night to please you,
but if I did not clasp a feathered quill in my hand,
I wonder... would you still hold me dear in your life?
I sit and write only for you lately. Am I fooling myself
to think it's just for the words I scribble on parchment
that you've become enthralled with the flair of my pen.
What then, my love? If no longer I could compose
expressions of devoutness meant for your eyes only.
With reverence, I beseech you to love me for who I am.
Would you leave me in painful throes of heartache,
forsaking my heart when my muse no longer expresses
the passionate verses you seek me to scribe for you?
Would you love me if I wasn't a poet, darling, scrawling
arduous words to describe the beauty of your face,
or the changing shades of grey in your wintery eyes?
No, dear one. Do not answer the questions I ask of you
for to hear your voice deny me of your love, I'd become
incapable of ever authoring another affectionate line.
I would tear my pages of poetry in half and burn them.
Grief-stricken; my tears blurring the ink to ever write again.
Despoiled of the will to create even one more quixotic verse.
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