I Write Poetry

I hardly speak of what I know, instead of what you need to hear,
A silent whisper, a furtive word, I utter into your ear.
I stole the bough of happiness.
I won the chance to change your fate.
And from this trough of scrappiness,
Springs forth the seed of hate.

You hath not strength of mind to speak of love you so desire,
So I’ll make haste and burn the bush, then pluck you from the fire.
I’ve lost that want of happiness.
But the power rests in me,
To send his favour back to you,
And content the heart of thee.

This love you need seems absent now but I’ll take it from the shelf,
I grant this gift of such treasured hoards, I save none for myself.

And thy heart begins to melt.