A Sonnet

Her face is as the rhyme in poetry, The expression first seen and admired, Her thighs are where the artist sees beauty The bar, meter where I find desire, Her lips a metaphor; always pleasure For sound, joy laughter, and serenity For bliss which she brings beyond my measure With word she can bring me felicity As part she’d take more than a year to write Is she perfect so, this sonnet can’t tell In this quatrain, in word, in life, and sight In soul she is God’s tool; bringer of zeal Much praise could she obtain, an idol be For she is where beauty, love and soul, meet.