They make no words for thee,
And had they done so
I am too weak a man
to weep such things
onto white ****** paper,
Much less to hold such words,
And pass them to you in a kiss
Such unmade words are a fleeting foolishness,
Cunning against my heart.
May I remain a foolish man
Lest the words be passed,
Through loves cruel lottery,
And your beauty become another's,
On a whim of sadistic chance.
I can never know if the words are true,
Like the feeling which spawns them,
Which no two can compare,
And in their doing so can both be wrong.
Perhaps not one of us is right,
and all of us, Brothers in idiocy.
We know not words which are not made.
The words describe a fleeting spark.
A moment passing if not grasped,
to another and another.
Weak and unfortunate Is the man,
Myself, who cannot create these words.
But again the wheel turns,
For they make no words for thee.
We must not Love
Yet love we must.