, , , , , , ,

Sometimes these things are not enough,

These words I build my world upon,

Escaping cold like south-bound birds,

Soft silence marks their presence gone.

Yet this is not the call of death,

A final breath to signal time,

Abandonment to fate’s design,

As failing last words dance in mime.


Sometimes these words are not enough,

To tell the story in my heart,

To speak the love I hold inside,

As they fall hopeless in your art.

To live in silence in your sway,

And gaze with wonder through your eye,

This life is all that I would choose,

The perfect love of you and I.