Vera, Primed

 
More sentimental tripe I scribed,  
on pixelated parchment, dried.  
Reader, tonight I felt your pain,  
or was it mine?  
 
I write inadequate thoughts down  
to soothe myself, and yet you frown.  
How else can I express  
my tongue's tied under duress?  
 
I miss the spring that's barely come,  
it's hardly had the chance to strum  
its wings, arise in flight  
into that starry night.  
 
Oh anything but that, the lissome  
shapes of daffodils and iris.  
Lavender or lilac's more to my taste;  
the lighter shades don't satiate.