I can't capture your beauty
by mere paint and strokes.
The strength in your eyes,
your gentle, calm look.
Or the feel of your hands
upon the strands of my hair.
Your loud, uncontrolled laugh
when you dance without care.
Your stubborn, solid self
when you insist on your belief.
Oh your beauty transends
from this universe to the next.
This mere artist cannot paint
your strength, your depth.
- y.m.
YOU ARE READING
Green Meadows
PoetryLife is a green meadow where green grasses grow. Some are tall bushes; some are just short weeds. No matter the length, no matter the size. Each one has a story; each one has roots. All are rooted to the humble earth, and all are under the radiant s...
