For truest love to write from out my pen
Then best a muse be found or none at all;
Decieving them, the curious in men:
Is to deceive myself, thus write as small,
As would a fool with no poetic claim;
Besides the lie in meter would conceal,
Yet found as false as couplets tend disclaim,
So love called true my friends, I can't reveal.
But love of sorts I am equipped to write:
Love blessed with mini imperfecting loves
That still dissolves the weariness of night
And nestles tight devoted, mismatched doves.

But is that love now true as love is real?
Convinced by pen, true love and me congeal!