Of Words That Sing

My words fall short, to divulge the things I feel

The languages of men and mer, their songs, their poem, serenade so scantly

For what dwells deep in my heart, a passion so ardent, so divine

The jargons of poets, so bland, in contrast, to the traces you left behind

So I spend my days, in a fevered reverence, lost in a requiem of a dream

And I write verse upon verse, even if the words won’t sing

Ink on parchment, parched and brown, that light the embers of my hearth

And my heartstrings tug, as your name lilts off my tongue

Yet no verse off it ever sings, the very insincerity be cursed

So I speak naught of the passion ersatz, choosing only to touch you, in places incarnate