There exist such poems in your eyes dear,
Such as would endow the mundane with wonder.
You are the Muse to whom I must surrender,
For none of my own verses could come near.
Together we've seen joy, despair and fear,
You're my pupil, my guide, my child, my mother.
As eternal friend there could be no other,
But there is some news that you ought to hear.
Her eyes! Her eyes! They seem to hide something sad.
She writes worse than you, I concede that, but then,
Possessive longing, vain anxious desire
Was a feeling between us we never had.
We could remain soulmates till such time as when,
You choose to commit my poems to fire.