His Poem

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She was like poetry,
Soft, subtle and charming,
Yet strong, ambitious and free.
Every layman could read her but only the poets understood,
Her beauty, charisma and power.
Written on a piece of paper,
She knew no boundaries.
Fire and desire, a sweet summer's verse,
Handcrafted with delicate details.

Seasons passed by,
And clans passed by,
But she remained concealed.
Dejected and neglected,
She kept herself hidden away.
Until one dawn of winter,
When his eyes fell upon her
face, Heavy throbbing of young hearts,
Beneath the moonlit sky.
Few words were exchanged,
Through mouth and million others through the eyes.
At an instant he knew her worth and swayed her away.

My poem, he called her and sang every afternoon,
Pristine as the northern snows,
Red as a southern rose,
Pouring like heavy rain on a parched heart,
You're a poet's breathing prose.

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