If I could be an artist all old with creative hands,
How many hours would I spend in toil?
Your beautiful face pictured in my mind,
Guiding my hands across the paper.
Sketching the perfection they try to copy.
To catch your smile and eyes for all time.
But an artist I am not and can never be.

If music was to be my calling,
For God to grant me this I wished.
Often I'd write of countless symphonies,
Your voice remembered in my ears,
Pushing my talent trying to rival the angels song.
Lifting our hearts and souls to be as one.
But a composer I am not and can never be.

All that is left are words.
Each letter tempting fate to break the seal,
Of emotions that feel trapped inside my heart.
Those that escape are just for you alone.
Perchance they fall upon your sleeping form,
And in your dreams comfort you is my wish.
Perhaps this is what I'm meant to be?

(c) 17 August 2000, Fnagaton.