A Secret.
Ben Dunne.
A black beauty,
characterised by her hair,
alike a swirling ebony and tinted iron hurricane,
full of descriptions, yet reality shows it as simple black.
Her skin, pale as the darkened moon,
not quite as bright as the winter moon, not quite as coloured as the summer sun.
She is like the stars, as her skin shimmers between the sun and the moon,
indecisive of her creator, indecisive of her aura, indecisive about admittance,
mixing, intertwining, producing the sight of an angel, startling the naked eye.
Angelic as she is, she is human, no less.
Her lips, red as the wilting rose, wilting as my love,
cracked as the beautiful grand canyon of a sweltering river,
closed, like the starving chick, in a nest of brethren, chirping at their mother's call,
she has no bird song.
Her eyes, alluring as they are inviting,
they hold no passion, no lust, no more.
They're as dull as a diamond, in their early stages of development,
carbon, blackened, dull, died.
My love is nothing great, my love is nothing short of a legend,
she is neither hate, nor love.
My love is yet to be announced,
yet to be discovered.
Lo and behold, the mystery,
of a small time wording.
Variably unearthing the disgusting truth,
ending the secrecy I contain.
Inevitably, I am to allow hearing,
secret hearing, to be heard, regarding the secret.
But for now, those who look closer,
entering the perplexed state of mind,
that allows you to delve into my mind,
have the faith to do so, and they shall know.
