It is not the heart that moves me so,
but a spiritual aspect I seek to know.
While I may speculate its origin
that does not solve the quandary I’m in.
These words assail my every thought
as if some sort of escape is sought.
They do not cease, even in my dreams.
I am compelled to pen them, it seems.
Once they’ve begun their manifestation
the poems develop with singular causation.
Though it may be a thing incorporeal,
my soul moves my life with forceful tutorial.
Poems of love are all I can write
all through the day and into the night.
They poke in my eyes and drag forth tears
this affliction has plagued me now for years.
It hardly matters if love comes or has parted,
If I am rapturous or now brokenhearted.
I find myself thinking in rhyme and verse.
There must be some way to undo this curse.
If you have any empathy, or better, compassion,
help me discover a remedy to fashion.
Share with me please, I am desperate to know it.
I fear this is fatal, the love of a poet.
M. Zane McClellan
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