The hills slide down to form slopes
that remind me of your gentle shape.
Those subtle, consecrated curves
cradling yours. Your sun-kissed skin
disrupted by grass holding
the green of your eyes with
the slightly yellow stress of mine.
Those perfect, purple weeds have fallen,
over your cherubic curls, creating
an immaculately regal crown to daunt
the passersby. I am so afraid
to dream of god,
part in fear of what, exactly, it would mean,
but mostly because
I feel that He would be lacking
to your disarming beauty, and
I wouldn't want to welcome the wrath
of God and his unfathomable shame of
being less than one of His own creation.
Copyright: Meagan Jeanette
Comments please and a thank you.