For quite sometimes you beg for words to flow
Because you knew your head is bleeding still,
Your muse was fair, though gleams were old and low
To reconstruct such works it makes you ill.
‘Gainst candle-light you may succumb in pain—
Through pen and ink it does re-name yourselff?
To fly as moth, and be a wand ‘ring swain:
An armory disdain'd by your own self.
Be confident and trust your hidden gift—
Re-read the phrase, input a proper rhyme
And let your passion wend until it drifts—
Down in your page; emerge as bard in prime.
A perfect sonnet for the one you praise,
Though given youth has fail'd to find its grace?
(C) 2018 Veronica Gray
© 2019 amberdusk
(All rights reserved)