Make of Me a Poet

Good Master Dylan, 

Alone at sea I ever find myself, 
Lost upon the torrent of greyish Thames; 
Fidgeting noiselessly upon a shelf 
As my youth slips past me and beauty dims. 
Mistress of little, save words upon page, 
An intelligent shrew, unfit to love; wife-- 
I tremble my scrawl which shall ne'er see stage; 
Characters dreamed upon, but without life. 
Trailing bitterness at my state as fair-- 
I am more than woman, fit to be bride; 
More, by far, than sweet looks but piercing stare. 
Woman's fate, by station, is to be wed; 
In a sea of men, adrift, like the dead. 

Make of me a poet....