a letter for her favorite word

With every word Which I now struggle, With every blundered Sentence that stumbles, I tell You once fair lady, that A long time ago, In a land too far, My words and my thoughts, Rested between poignant and par. Though my lips may tremble, My heart May flutter quite a bit more, Patrons of my day will speak of times When like an eagle, my language was the highest that soared. Now my lips are frozen, Opening my mouth thrives with Pain, Yet Even if the words were chosen, Sounding breathes would still refrain. Like a babbling buffoon, I sit at my desk With blotches of ink. That truthfully without coating, Are wretched with odors of stink. And here I am So closely far, Speechless, wordless, Content with the plaguing Silence. The words that once Came like spring after the snow, Now are lost with the falling leaves Of autumn, And like summers question Of the winters air, I plainly Just do not know. If I were to speak, I would have spoke, If I were to breathe, I might haved choked. For in the congested air, Of when your there, Is what binds me without my words. I myself was a poet once, my lady, Once a master finagler Of the word, But when I caught first sight of you, Fair lady, Not since has a poetical moment occurred. Written December 20th, 2001 © on Jan 31 2002 09:13 AM PST   0 • 8