I have long searched for words
To adequately describe your beauty,
But Webster wrote his book in English;
And though it's what you love,
I find it wanting.
Perhaps if I spoke in the tongue of angels,
The music of the heavens and of earth.
But your sweet voice covers all;
My melodies crumble
And harmony turns bitter in my mouth.
My ink and brush remain
Tools to capture that which is seen.
But your loveliness spreads deep within
The dark and wonderful recesses of your soul
Which no man can hope to reach.
But your eyes--
Stained glass windows into these beautiful depths...
I have not the skill to craft works of art in your flawless image,
But let your beauty, your eyes, your soul
Grace my weak, weak words
And find truth.