Should I inform the pages of our bed?
Could words have words for what is most unsaid,
To not, has then this poet failed it's stead;
To write that which the heart to-pen has led,
Then if I claim me poet, I'm deceived;
By self to self committing grievous fraud,
The worsen kind my show by stage received
And all the future works reveal me flawed.
But write then here, then I to my muse proved;
You dance upon my words to finger tips,
And tap our only truths, your eyes approved -
And wetted, dripped from out your loving lips.

Become my write, oh lovely muse of mine!
Our night shall be as ink, is to our wine.