Mirror, mirror, show me the lonely muse
who doesn't know the power of her heart,
and wonders why a poet sings and strews
his churning words before her - to impart
some solace for her sentimental soul,
which flares unbearably from time to time,
because she dares to live emotions whole
while others merely mimic them in mime.
Yet if you knew how beautiful you are,
then vanity could take it all away,
and form you haughty, high and peril-proud -
as bright and bitter as the farthest star;
a cool and comely comet for a day -
a minute's marvel, darling of the crowd.
Instead, I'm just a jester at your court,
rhyming the lines with which your ears are kissed,
seeking to feel the beating of your heart,
and celebrate a soul without a chain.
Heed for a season verses that I wrought,
while still the blissful memories persist
of love's first flame awaking at the start,
and one iconic rose amidst the rain.