I am no poet, only poetic
who could never kiss the moon
in the evening twilight;
nor a man with a heart of roses,
to exude the fragrance of his love.
I am no poet, who can pen
profound mysteries about the past,
nor a man of beautiful promises
to be kept safe until the world is dust.
I am no poet, only poetic
who could never touch the souls
of every woman’s dreams;
nor a man with arms of a gladiator,
to protect her forever
from the shadows of her grief.
And as the sun sets in the horizon
from another blemished morning end,
resembles tears of thine eyes;
for my love for you, my majesty,
will never be enthroned
into your kingdom,
like when I am with you,
like I am to you,
my tongue speaks,
I am no poet, only poetic.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 8:29 AM UTC
I am no poet, only poetic
who could never kiss the moon
in the evening twilight;
nor a man with a heart of roses,
to exude the fragrance of his love.
I am no poet, who can pen
profound mysteries about the past,
nor a man of beautiful promises
to be kept safe until the world is dust.
I am no poet, only poetic
who could never touch the souls
of every woman’s dreams;
nor a man with arms of a gladiator,
to protect her forever
from the shadows of her grief.
And as the sun sets in the horizon
from another blemished morning end,
resembles tears of thine eyes;
for my love for you, my majesty,
will never be enthroned
into your kingdom,
like when I am with you,
like I am to you,
my tongue speaks,
I am no poet, only poetic.
© 2012
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