Why?
I have often wondered the depth of her,
The mere breadth of her,
How I can hate her,
Yet pine for her.
Is it a gift?
Something she alone possesses?
I doubt it truly,
It makes me loath more than it impresses.
Yet with a pen, with a quill
A piece of bark dipped in ink!
Thoughts came unbridled;
Thought I swear I couldn't think.
As her friend I am there,
As a comrade, only, it seems
But what could be done
To be the one in her dreams?