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.