Out of Words

I call myself a writer, but I'm out of words
How can a mortal man express the indescribable?
The paradise that you are and the heavens from whence you came,
Beautiful to glance at yet terrifying to behold?

As flawlessly beautiful as a starry automn night
Yet as vicious as a lightning storm and half as forgiving
As reassuringly warm as a mid-summer afternoon,
Then as bone-chilling as a late December blizzard
One might get fooled by your long warm summers
Or the playful, lazy springs that bloom in your eyes,
But not me, for I have seen the winters too
Hard and windy and ice-cold... Yet somehow stunning

I call myself a writer, but I'm out of words
How can a proud man reveal his addiction without seeming weak,
If a deaf man were to hear music for the first time,
Could he ever go back to being deaf again?
Would he ever be able to forget someone
As soothing, calm and relaxing as jazz
As energetic, powerful and raw as rock
As classy, methodical and harmonic as an orchestra
An orchestra of possibilities and endless longing?

I call myself a writer, but I'm out of words
How can any words I write ever give you justice?
How can any writer describe color to the blind?
For I have seen what no mortal man was meant to see
I have seen what it means to drown in eyes as deep as oceans,
As vast and incomprehensible as the corners of space,
As promising yet dangerous as a lush forest
With the colors to match all three

I have seen what it means to be as hard as steel with your beliefs
As proud and majestic as a lioness, roaring her defiance
With a determination so fiery it burns like a thousand suns,
Yet more modest and humble than anyone else would be

I call myself a writer, but I really am out of words,
If I sit down here to write about you, I will never be done
But always remember that no matter what happens,
As long as I breathe, I won't be deaf again.