She's like a river that cuts it's way through a valley:
Smooth, but ever changing.
Her waters are murky,
So you can never see what she posesses.
She's like a thunderstorm that rumbles into the night:
The wind are her embraces,
but the gleam of the rain on the grass
are her tears.
She's like a sunflower in the summer morning:
Her head is always turned toward the sun,
but droops with the sadness of the everyday
But what about me?
I am nothing but the poet that watches her from afar
and admires every aspect about her.
The one who has fallen for her.
And in my years of watching this angel grace my screen
I have figured out the color of love.
For my color