A red rose or a thornbird,
Paints her pain ,
With shades of green mints,
And bones wild to empyrean .
A woman,
Is the heart of nature,
And the art of love,
For someone who flutes her worth.
It is okay for a woman,
To die out to tears and drown weak,
For she's a mere potter,
Who moulds herself to breathe back strong.
A living pillar , a fragrant flower,
A sweet home or a grooving poetry,
But a gorgeous present,
For an overwhelming future.
A priceless existence,
Who queens her pride under the spotlight
For she ,
Is the beginning of beatitude.
A she is the mother of love,
Goddess of purity,
As celestial as heaven,
And black to lust.
A she is unstoppable.
YOU ARE READING
IMPERFECTIONS
PoetryBeing imperfect isn't a flaw, it's being a perfect YOU! IMPERFECTIONS is a poetry book which dwindles your pain in the arse and gifts you merriment and pleasure reading experience. The poems found here are perfectly crafted in an imperfect manner t...
