Gaily she sits, supping at her Latte.
Her lustrous hair shines almost as brightly as,
The light of love glowing behind her intrepid eyes.
Her poise, her smile convey her inner depths.
She guards and yet, cannot contain it all,
Her work shows genius of a very rare kind.
Not yet gone mad, she has both her ears.
But I have seen a furious labour of love,
Go well on walls, even a pretty penny.
As she slowly rolls the cigarette in hand,
I feel her wild abandon to be expressed,
In even the minute, perfection is her art.
As I look again over the years past,
I see her passion as ever still alive,
The work of real love conveyed, her lightest touch.
And in the distance, calling her pretty name,
The angels come again to follow her way,
Robbing me of time to enjoy her still.
Glimmering the mirage, she leaves still haunting.
But I be not afraid such love cannot harm,
Even from centuries past, her image firmly made.
x
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