Twixt the caverns of the mind
And the edges of the quill,
Lurks the matters that are dearest
To my soul.

As I seek to set them free,
I oft am fraught with indecision.

Such hesitancy,
Alas,
Is a defect.

For these are times
My Muse is mute.

Such trying times,
I must refute.

Ah!
But to see the beauty of a flower!

Or,
Partake of some significant event.

Perchance,
To touch the face of love.

For these I pray!

For then,
With powerful perception
My pen will race upon the page.
Unfettered thought shall run with joy,
And I will write
It all.