One more from the old book.
A young, handsome man
With no luck at love
Sought, a pen in his hand
Aid from the gods above
And so it was, on a dark, weary night
That he asked for the gods and they came
His eyes were blinded by the strongest of light
There stood a girl with no name
But alas, it was a young girl of stone
Her eyes lacked that sparkling play
And there stood our boy, cold and alone
In the arms of a girl made of clay
The boy now writes poems of dread
To a statue with eyes not playful, but dead
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