Oh Emily, Emily, sing a song,
of words and slanted light tha pushes you,
down to the floor. Your words, so close, so few,
so marked and scorned, have hidden far too long.
Oh Emily, tell me your secrets. I strive
for you, your white, your sharpened eyes, your frown.
So let me be unloved, unknown, my sound
ignored from day to day - my meager life.
But can one every understand? True Art
in poetry is skill, not chance. I'll write,
and hide, and never share my feeble light
with you. I'll hide these words inside my heart.
Oh what's the use? To push and pull at words
that never fit bun only clash like swords.
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