Written in prose,
with verses that turned out morose.
And why not to write
what others long to recite?
To trade authenticity
for blooming commerciality?
I have written novels à l’eau de rose,
but the flower of my inspiration only rose to swiftly wilt.
Not to criticise those who are drawn to its remain,
I just wonder why I constantly need to excuse and explain.
For the worst is that indeed afterall,
These apologies are nothing but emptiness
A repleted plea of protocol and customs
where more has no other meaning than less
Beautiful!