For every word I wrote to you,
I crossed out ten four score.
And I never found the prose,
I was truly searching for.
Your beauty defies language,
but I still stubbornly try.
I can’t believe that you don’t believe,
the muse about you that I write.

I’ve searched a hundred diction’ries,
I’ve read a thousand plays.
But the words of past great masters,
don’t suffice; are doomed to fail.

And, as if to make me suffer,
to rub salt in my wounds,
you compose a closet sonnet,
pale my efforts to cheap croon.
You are more than an enigma,
you are more than words describe.
You are the root of women’s scorn,
why kingdoms fight and die.

©1.8.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman

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