If beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Then please be the last thing these weary eyes see.
Holding, I view nothing more than something simple like her lips.
And, a soul like no other.
In the body lies another dimension.
That I will visit in the core of our excitable existence.
Stretched and molded into one.
I cannot speak of wanting nor desire.
The innocence of meeting has yet to transpire.
If beauty is immeasurably in the eyes of the beholder, then these are the eyes I wish to hold you with.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
