She is the beauty and love of which perseveres so much so, it be marked a tragedy. A poem every poet writes in the mist of his own euphoria and tears apart in their desolation. She was art in the way it was beautiful and in the way it made you feel something. A rarity that occurs only in a lifetime of memories. A painting whose colors burned the canvas as the artist painted the veil of her essence. She is love, a kindness too pure to like, a heart too full to hold and a rose too beautiful to adore. A deep joy so heavy in heart, everything gave in to its whims. But that was she. An art. A love. A beauty.
by Micky229 November 22, 2021