The Jealous Poet

On one fine day the poet found another, Of which her words would make his smother. He didn't know what to do, Even his pen cried tears, a few. Each verse that he read, Bore more jealousy in his head. A battle of supremacy would soon come, From mere inches of his thumb. But for each two words that he wrote, One of hers, ever more spoke. So a decision was made, dreaming in his bed, That he would take up painting, for this instead! 9-September-2021