If indeed I were to write,
I’d write for you alone
but alack, it isn’t easy,
because dearest, neither are you.
You’re nothing like the lark,
or the rose or moon or summer’s day.
And comparing you would be
shaming you- a sin I dare not commit.
Thus being a lowly writer,
and taking the liberty of words,
if indeed I were to write,
I’d write that you are you.