Tis true my soul speaks with a deaf tongue, as I hear not its own cry, only the thoughts of my mind. Though I look at you, and remember your genteelness with beauty. My mind it awakens me, with a question are you the one who was to teach my soul not to speak, but to sing, like that of a poets. How easily I forget that Im only a simple man. Unable to bathe you in the richness of words.
I dream though, to be a poet and not just a man. Where I could shower you with words that my heart has spoke, though they are all locked behind doors. To free them the angels within heaven would know your name, for it would be song with such praise. Yet know I must look away. Down and away as you are not to see my tears. Though it is you, and your hand that I would wish to wipe them from my cheek. For you my love belong in the arms of a poet who controls the night. Not a simple man who stands before you in your sight.

By Jonathan Paul Germundson