the cold of morning rain
sends weary chills down my core
seeming not content to flush my veins:
greedily bores a hole right through.
that, i, stumbling upon a pen,
drag my soul to fill
each line with words and rhymes.
but surely not my heart would sing
for what would drive it without the string?
what is there that’s left for art
if not for beauty, wrath, or love?
and so i swear from here on through
to write again for none but you…
none but you
