Her Crown
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Her Crown
Your glory is soft,
and falls all about your shoulders.
It is ever lovely,
a river of sweetness.
I want… to comb your hair.
I desire…to comb your hair.
I want to take the brush and caress,
every strand, to tease it and please it…
I want to somehow express how,
beautiful…
You are,
to me.
God has already framed your face.
He knows my heart as I take your hand.
and ever try to keep up.
Forever,
until my breath is gone,
I will brush strands,
lost and tied to things I own.
Never let me go, my love.
Copyright © Ann Foster | Year Posted 2019
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