Eighty-nine drafts, and still I write, A tortured bird in endless flight, Each stroke I wince, each word a sigh, But still, the beauty slips and dies.
I chased its grace, so bright, divine, Yet found its ghost in each design. It shone too pure, too far, too wide, For earthly ink to form inside.
Through countless drafts, my weary hand, Does tremble cross these barren land. The muse eludes my feeble grasp, Its fleeting form, a final gasp.
And so I write, and write again, A fool who cannot quell the pain, For though I seek, this endless art, I cannot capture it, my heart.
Jupiter 