Her

HER Her face was unique, unlike that of another Neither fake nor borne from a front cover Her eyes of many twinkling tinted hues Of pure light and darken crystal blues Her soft skin, that of a tender white opal Rests upon a petit face, neither round nor oval Her blooming ruby lips that so stood out From under her small button nose snout Her brows fretted above her sweet eyes A little sullen, a little woeful, one; does spies Her dark hair, streaked with rays of amber gold My hands held out wontedly, just so I could hold Her embodiment of beauty, her total inner grace All wrapped up in the finest french exquisite lace Her composure still intact, silently, she leaves O’ for her only, how my sad old heart bleeds Indiana Shaw . . . (-_-) "Not my regular cup of tea, but; I'm out of Earl Grey" . . . : /