So I ensconce to my reflection

for no onus can I find

if perchance affords the memory

of what we leave behind

I can will to each endeavor

every task I undertake

that my heart shall be the origin

and virtue be thy sake

So I turn my prow to summer

keep the windage to my back

ever conscious, ever knowing

of the precious things I lack

I wear a cloak of acrimony

even though that I could change

a bit of pride I show it

so most would think me strange

And I bear, to her, no malice

for the trouble that she wrought

as it was fear that brought her to it

and a lack of conscious thought

For to spoil my image of her

and decry this notion fair

would lay waste, my inspiration

shoot my castles from the air

So with all respect, I promise

cross my heart and hope to die

though I may never win her over

something beckoned me to try