The sun gleams off her forehead,
And you would think nature would,
cast a shadow beneath the light that is her face,
But it glows; a display of fireworks.
The innocence that spews from the blush in those cheeks,
A smile both captivating and enthralling,
You’d think it was built for war,
But had that composure of a nursing mother.
Her lips are a banquet,
They possess an eloquent charisma,
Sumptuous, it makes one lush with lust,
The aperture unveils pearly whites that are the gate to heaven.
Her hair, A bouquet of flowers,
Rests upon the shimmering cynosure that is her face,
Strands woven into spongy locks,
As if they were handpicked, With great precision.
Her bosom is fabricated with great poise,
It welcomes a feeble heart and renders it robust,
An endearing bed of roses,
One in which you lay in, till the boatman calls for sail.
– Smyekh David-West.