February Fever
In the battle of the poets
Closeted within their dens,
Words their only ammunition
Shooting from their ink filled pens,
Seeking phrase uniquely pretty
And an unused metaphor,
They have not the time to help me
Woo the one whom I adore.
Without muse or bard assistance
Am I equal to the game?
In trite words of deep devotion
Will the message be the same?
I can't say it grandiosely
As I beg you to be mine.
The old words will have to do then.
"Will you be my Valentine?"
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009
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