A Quill In Stone
How many poems must I write before I sufficiently capture the essence of your beauty?
I have begun to exhaust the language to depict your flawless features.
What a dilemma in the realm of poetry.
Perhaps I am not as great a poet as you made me out to be,
For your smile alone could fill ten lengthy pieces.
I have managed nine.
The words for the tenth remain quite elusive.
I grow close to surrender.
My quill falters beneath your radiance
And this time a blade won't erase its dullness
I shall step aside,
And permit another to attempt the Excalibur of Literature.
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