i cannot help but steel myself for this,
my yearly quest:  express myself to thee.
but often thoughts come slowly and amiss;
at times no better than a potpourri.

and yet betimes a flower seems to bloom,
to grow from sturdy stele to fragrant cress.
as innate as a babe within the womb,
ideas draw night and simply coalesce.

so while i cringe and hope for something true,
a rhyme that in its dreams could be called deft
or p'rhaps a play on words will have to do 
how you can steal, yet get away with theft:

you have absconded with my heart in tow
and yet i find 'tis i, not thee who owe.

Your comments are greatly appreciated.

2005 by Nandor