A Love, Mature
Lust, infatuation.
The eyes capture her and the mind disengages.
Logic ceases. She is perfect.
Hair golden and flowing with the wind,
eyes as blue as a cloudless sky.
Pink lips, slightly parted and glistening.
And those breasts, full and animated, nipples hard as diamonds.
The love of youth is like the hurricane.
It comes quickly and overwhelms you easily.
but when it has passed, desolation is it's consequence.
A plethora of storms come and go over the years.
Yet, as we age, we change.
The tempest still comes,
but we know what it brings, so we move to safer lands.
And this new place is just as beautiful.
More so, in many ways.
We no longer just see with our eyes, but with our souls.
We sense energy, intelligence, spirit, emotions and so much more.
Now, in our maturity, we see her beauty in a new way.
Her golden hair now with streaks of silver,
and we understand the struggles she has survived.
Her blue eyes have faded and show tracks of tears,
and we understand the inhumanity she has seen.
Her lips are parched and furrowed,
and we understand the battles she has fought.
Her breast drawn and uneven,
and we understand the abuse she has suffered.
Logic is present,
and she is,
perfect.
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By Warren NightWolf
10/30/18
221 Words, free-verse
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