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Dear Mr. Poet!
He tried to write,
With all his might.
But the words in his head,
Sounded better unread.
Trying to write something cherishable, he sat at his desk for an eternity,
But his efforts bore no fruits consistently.
Without rhymes, his life was sad made,
His hobby seemed on a retrograde.
His mistakes and errors made him faltering,
Was such a woeful life worth living?
He tried to revive a wilted heather with his quill,
The flower smiled gratefully, thankful for his sheer will.
'Dear Mr Poet!' reminded the now-brimming flower,
"Let the time work it's charm,
thy art is as distinctive as a four -leaf clover."
The gods in the heaven blessed him fondly,
And the heather endowed him with their love.
His quill spelled the last words
warmly,
As the white dove took his poem to his belove.
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