The world is full of words we speak in love--
Riddled with clichés, so tired and old.
Songs reveal how songs are not enough,
And how each tale of love has once been told.
Alright--there's nothing new beneath the sun;
Each lover spins his words in template webs,
And sighs for sonnets, overused, redone.
Eloquence can wane as romance ebbs.
Epithets, endearments, so cliché,
Even in their sweet and simple parts;
And all of them unable to convey
A feeling strong as love in aching hearts.
So here's a bit of written love for you
In a genre, in a form that just won't do.
postscript
No, I'm not gonna write you a love song....