You say my prose isnít flowery.
But those blooms are of times pastÖ
These days things get colder, harsher,
No one writes of rosebuds and rue
And nobody reads about love.
You may prove differently someday,
but I think itís because love like they had
back in Tennysonís time
Just doesnít exist anymore these days.
Poetry is pain, my friend.
Youíre just going to have to deal.