Thursday, July 29, 2010

Inadequate

Were I a poet
I'd write you a rhyme

A musician
I'd write you a tune

Were I an artist
I'd paint you the Heavens

An astronomer
I'd lasso the moon

Would but that I were all of these things
Then maybe you might see

The depth to which your mere memory affects
the very heart of me

But given a parchment, a lute, a brush
or a telescope aimed at the sun

My fingers, so clumsy, my heart all aflutter,
could master nary a one

The words to my sonnet, the notes to my symphony,
The muse to my masterpiece, the stars to my galaxy

You, who are all that I see

Will you ever know the depth to which your mere memory affects
the very heart of me?

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