This poem I’m sorry to write
In the absence of another,
The one that would be the best
Or else I wouldn’t bother.

Of that poem, the perfect one,
You would be the muse,
But I can’t see you, you’re not here,
So to write it there’s no use.

That poem hatched deep in my heart
Rather than my hollow head.
Both of them are aching now
While lying in an empty bed.

The world’s best poem it would be,
I am dead sure of it,
For in the oyster of my soul
Only your pearl would fit.

The down side of this poem’s fate,
Of which I’m forever sad,
Is that it never came to life.
Your perfect poem was born dead.