The Lover
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
A sword can never wound itself, but hair
As beautiful as yours can wield a wound
To you. It leaves you vulnerable. A snare
Each time you see them, curls make you attuned
To resonating beauty deep inside
The meaning of your body and your face.
The curls and black lick lightly at your pride
Where arrogance impels in inner space.
An eye can never see itself. If blue
It cannot look inside its beauty gemmed
With bevels carved inside God’s hardest hue.
Defying Christ it will not be condemned.
The women with this truest color eye
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