Nice
She says nice
But I know better;
Like ice sculptors
I shape words
Out of the rough
Like out of the blue
From me to her;
Watch it all
Take form
Right before
Her very eyes;
Like sandcastles
And graffiti murals,
But unlike those,
My art will never melt,
Will never fade,
Will never get washed
Away with the next tide
If this was a pen
It would glide on paper
Smooth like
The curves on her...
Copyright © Nestor David Armas | Year Posted 2013
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