I never was much good at metaphors;
I usually just say the things I mean
(Albeit sometimes hidden behind scores
Of pronouns that can obfuscate what is seen).
So when I write these poems, I don't say
There is a rose that grows in fertile ground
But I, alas, fear for a blasted May
After which the rose will not be found
Because it wilted with the sudden cold,
But rather that I sometimes fear (sometimes)
That though we love, I have been overbold
And you will realize that these poor rhymes
And my true love are insufficient pay
For what you give to me, and go away.
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