When vain excess in word it shows
what trouble its own making grows.
When words we write befits the cause
and less to reasons sense of pause.

What sadness we, seem to inflict
as if, our self-it interdict.
To leave us so bereft of sense
our posting be its last compense.

What many ways emotion vie
when it by Erato’s guise so ply.
To lead us down paths of conceit
‘til conscience be the wall we meet.

Ah poetry, what sins yourself admit
when we, your varied ways so fit.

Mor.