A Sonnet
Her face is as the rhyme in poetry,
The expression first seen and admired,
Her thighs are where the artist sees beauty
The bar, meter where I find desire,
Her lips a metaphor; always pleasure
For sound, joy laughter, and serenity
For bliss which she brings beyond my measure
With word she can bring me felicity
As part she’d take more than a year to write
Is she perfect so, this sonnet can’t tell
In this quatrain, in word, in life, and sight
In soul she is God’s tool; bringer of zeal
Much praise could she obtain, an idol be
For she is where beauty, love and soul, meet.
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