If I could write a simple verse for you
By leaving out all things of no import,
Then all your skies would turn from black to blue,
And all your battles be already fought.
My quill is often far too intricate
Because it scrawls with thoughts of butterflies,
And so the colours lose themselves to soot -
My meanings lost amongst a showy guise.
For now, my pen can rest upon the page -
These lips can do their best to speak the verse.
I call on actors, all, to leave the stage;
My words will do their best to quench your thirst.
When lines you mean to draw become a shape,
Denounce the ocean for a simple lake.