The Minstrel’s Lot

It’s my life’s work,

To sit and sculpt the images of her form,

To shape with phrases praises of my muse

To sing her songs and tell her stories,

To sketch her form in words that sum

The jigsaw of her mysterious whole.

And with deft fingers strum cupid’s harp

And pull at heart strings near and far,

And watch as tear drops form and fall,

For want of warmth from her embrace

And memories of her lips upon my own.