And why do I fall short of passion.
That which I offer in overwhelming plethora.
Though feel not impassioned.

And why do I fall short of the trance.
That which I cannot seem to conjure.
Seems to waver in its uncertainty.

And why do I commit such acts.
That which lacerate the conscience.
Superfluous in purpose, process and repercussions.

And now I feel such derision.
That which flounders all my efforts.
Cuts me silent in my path.

And attribute to the spinebill.
That which it desires sought freely.
Bring at last to me my sweetness.