Posing for my pen is a transient art,
Yet only a few have sat before me.
Able were they to draw out of my heart
Feelings that composed a grand symphony.

It was a long lost pair that moved my pen
For an elaborate amount of time,
But all my ink ran dry time and again,
No more can I match their name with a rhyme.

An unwritten hope leads me to believe
Nearing is my poetic destiny.
A future in which I’ll always conceive
Stanzas of amour will finally be.

And my withered hand will ne’er be at rest,
One more line would be my dying request.