Deftly, she weaves in a red rose
Whilst braiding my hair,
Supple fingers gentle
As the warmth of her breath
Washing over the nape of my neck.
She straightens the collar
Of my shirt; the one that she ironed,
And closes the clasp
Of my necklace on my behalf.
She has made me beautiful, I say,
But she refutes it immediately -
I was always this way; she believes
That she has simply helped me to see.
It would be neither the first nor the last time
She revealed that something I desire
Is already mine;
I hadn't thought I knew how to love,
But I found myself loving her as though
It was the most natural thing.
I never thought I could love myself,
But I glance in the mirror
And smile.
The rose in my hair, braided so
Delicately, the colour of my cheeks -
She has made me a work of art;
For the first time, I can find no fault
In my reflection.
I see somebody deserving of
The diamond pendant resting atop their breast,
A portrait finally beautiful enough
To proudly bear the artist's mark.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
