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 Ð
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.
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