A paper sheet; untouched and lily white
An illusion waiting for ink to be born
Of poet’s dreams in sweet rhythm and rhyme
That voices passion for love’s own delight.
The ancient nib in poet’s hand is worn
By words that flow inside the deepest thought
And echo sounds of a bamboo wind chime
From the muse’s scented garden each night.
And though my thoughts of you maybe forlorn
When you are not with me in space and time
I have but words to speak of love and court
Your hand; and plead that you’ll take me as thine
A humble poet seeks your heart’s consort
By pen and ink that form poetic line.
Jem 25 April 2011
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