Crafting an Artificial Carnation
Supposing
penning a poem without inspiration
is like crafting an artificial carnation,
emitting no sweet fragrance,
I'd rush to a plain and listen to the rain
rather than rack my brain
trying to create an air of romance.
Supposing
my muse has gone astray,
I would rather pray and hit the hay
than look through the window pane
trying to ease my pain.
This Stifling Summer Night
If you guess
the reason why I stay awake
until the wee hours
and my mind's a mess
is that I've been missing the lake
where Athena used to play
on this stifling summer night,
I might say yes,
at first sight.
Nevertheless,
after having thought twice,
it's the pink roses
that used to glow on your face
that I used to languish for
but now come forth
lamentably blurry and listless.