Apple cheeks and rose petal lips,
Leaves sway gentle as graceful hips,
River hair falls to the waterfall tips,
Natural beauty remains unclipped
Peace on the earth of your dusky skin
Freckles dust rising and falling breaths thin
Your beauty is wild yet holds no sin
Largely because the sweetness of apples comes from within
Eyelashes curl down as sleep takes firm hold
The petals of flowers that protect from the cold
They say beautiful women have to be bold
But kindness is a power you wield sharp and old
The heart of the forest beats your chest like a primal drum
Fairness balances scale without the tip of your thumb
Peace lines your mouth, poison tasting mint gum
Even in rest it's your spirit that numbs
Soothing with truth to a false security
Spawned by the lack of animosity
You're the quiet of nature juxtaposed with the city
The beauty so starkly far more than the pretty
But the city is safe while nature is bare
Waterfalls crash in the rivers of hair
And your eyes remain closed as your sleep in my care
But when you open them fire blazes your stare
As a forest fire cleanses the sickness of drought
Your sweetness burns through a bitter bright thought
Fluid like water that cannot be caught
And a soul burns like lava as love is taught
I'll never forget what those before me forgot
That the flesh of an apple's tart as often as not
That it shields seedy cyanide, spiralling dots
That if its sights set to killing it would take but a drop
***
Hey guys,
Kindness is a weapon that I haven't learnt to wield, and as such I can confirm that those who have are far better off.
Such as one of my best friends who this poem is written about.
Starting now I'm attempting an A to Z type challenge where the title/topic of each poem will start with the letter of the alphabet in order.
I suppose it's a challenge that falls a little short of a month, but since it's February it's fairly close, so I may throw two in about the nature of the English language/alphabet to make up the difference.
If anyone wishes to join me, let me know so I can read your poems!
Alex xxx
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Under My Sofa
कविताWhen I was little I wrote in the space under my sofa. Now I write on top of it. That's not poetic. I'm just too big to fit underneath anymore.
