Her beauty.
A group of characteristics that make me choke
On which words to use,
Which phrase to say
And which ones abused.
Which ones are cliche and say too much.
Her gentle touch.
Brisling down the lion's mane.
Not so much a cowardly tame,
But a commander of his influence;
A mental intrudence
That turns out to be welcomed;
A manipulated gesture
That turns jester into a still man;
A coward with a strong stance
On top of a mountain of books
Containing words he can't use.
Phrases he can't choose.
Her passion.
Although it may not seem rational
Her passion in the past tense
Repents a bashful ration of
Her materials she isn't fastened to.
So much to where I can't conclude
If she is insane for not being let down,
Or courageous for not showing a frown.
Her music.
When she speaks
Or when she swings around those beautiful notes,
Where no one knows
Her pain and guilt
She stands on stilts above the masses;
Which caught my eye's attention.
As if the peasants below her pass and
It doesn't break my listen.
Her giggles and chortles
As if not from a mortal
But from a gleeful Goddess.
Possess my chest
And controls the rest of my body
To where nobody can harm me.
Her beauty, her gentle touch,
Her passion and music
Are strings that tie her together.
These strings make up a beautiful person;
Her characteristics is her arpeggio.
