My Masterpiece

On parchments fine, 
In vain I try, 
To build in verse a masterpiece, 
My very own last supper in rhyme, 
A futile attempt to reason, 
With words of mine,tainted, 
Hollow and bare, 
Shamelessly hers to claim, 
That clings to a fond memory, 
That my pinings conjure, 
As blooms to a long lost spring, 
A relic of affluence, 
Still painfully fragrant, 
In acrostics I try to spell her name, 
Only to deceive my own intentions, 
To put to order emotions mine, 
And I get lost amidst, 
Her tresses and my words.