Reading between the lines of love,
I recognized this tale of woe;
It sizzled with a panicky voice,
and growled with anger rising slow.

The parchment pages rustled handily,
my fingers framed each word;
Perspiring now my hands were soaked,
in images which propelled the sword.

But no tears arose from mockery or shame,
while reading the familiar flow;
Of my gallant efforts to show the world,
there was more to my work than show.

Yet somehow in the gruesome night,
a thief had coveted my manuscript;
As I stood aghast in the bookstore,
each stolen page I hastily began to rip.

Can anyone else ever possibly know,
how very startling it is to see;
A literary fraud which breaks apart,
the inspiration for a writer's purity.