I Could Write A Book Poem by Heidi K. Haskell

When my feet itch for greener roads
And my ears burn in want of sweeter tones,
I take up my pen to make a Prince from toads -
A knight of ink and paper, not flesh and bones.

I write a tale of love transcending time and space,
Past love, death, and forgotten birthdays, too.
My hero always wears your face.
But I know he isn't you.

And how could he be you? I ask,
Who never told me anything of worth
To aid me in this near-insurmountable task:
To bring end to this informational dearth.

Without the succor of ever knowing your heart
I build you as I think you ought to be:
Thrice blessed with wit, the poet's art,
Honor and fidelity.

You think me wonderful, at least;
Tease me, true - but ever only in jest.
If knowledge be food, in each other we may feast.
Past optical illusion, you see my best.

Arguments are easily repaired because I
Know your mind better than I know my own.
You're used to my moods, bold to shy,
Yet you never let me groan.

Fine is the love I write, and fair;
Touched with starlight, twilight, wind, and fire.
When wielding my pen, beloved, I find you there
A friend, a king, in knightly fine attire.

Oh, I wrote me a love to last forevermore,
Perfect in my book. But if invited,
I'd trade it in a heartbeat for
One shabbily requited.