Whether it is inadequacy of the alphabets,
or the writer refraining from
overrating his abilities; it remains a mystery,
even if letters were enough.
I always knew the multiplication of
syllables and metaphors to add up
to perfect stanzas would be tough;
for my words are far from the finest whisky.
We all can try, but no sonnet would do
justice to such precious soul.
They said angels fly,
but I knew it was a lie from our first ‘Hi’
Even after you die, our dedications to you
would be just articulated lies.
With eyes so round,
our elaborations about them will remain inferior lines;
What a unique kind of beauty you possess.
It would be a shame on men to not obsess.
So do bless us with your smile,
For our souls do yearn for enchantment,
even if it is just for a while!