His hair was the colour of a wheat field, burning, a mixture of bright golds.
His eyes were filled with tenderness and pity, and his eyes were blue like ice with cloud-pale eyelids to match.
His cheeks were pale, coloured red with passion on the best of days.
His pearl-pale hands laid still in the darkness.
His pale brows arched and his heart trembled.
a/n
I'm basing this whole tiny story off of a poets many poems. Let's see if you can guess which poet by the end.
