Tears of joy,
love and intellect both,
beyond comprehension,
without measure,
she already knows what in life to treasure.

Pollyanna,
naivety,
perfect characteristics,
roses in the cheeks,
from her unto me.

No matter the trial,
she's resilient,
a gift to the world,
a world undeserving.

Slow to anger,
quick to trust,
never to hate,
always forgiving.

Master of kindness,
lover of fate,
baker and nurse,
warmth and intuition within her replete.

Warm baked bread,
jam on my toast,
hugs of a seasoned mother,
arms of a saint.

Love,
unconditional,
respect,
automatic,
spirituality,
ov­erflowing.

Her sensibilities are timeless,
she's full to brim with honey,
creamies and recliners,
the foundation of my childhood,
remembered into the eternities.

Molded and shaped,
firm against the skin,
so much strength,
so subject to change.

Formation of shape,
line,
and form,
never the same,
defying the norm,
hand pressed down,
as I work to create.

Thick and centered,
grooves along the base,
just as life,
art is far from a race.

As with the burgeoning of the oak,
wings spring forth from the dust,
living sediment,
free from my grasp.

Clarity of heart,
strength of spirit,
alacrity of mind,
pureness of intent.

So much love,
I can't comprehend,
the sweetness of her soul,
so much love,
it brings me shame.

Despite poor circumstance,
a bulwark to the storm,
a guardian angel,
she loves everyone.

Celestial bound,
no heaven too high,
she always asks the right questions,
but never asks why.

God first,
family second,
I cannot resent,
I cannot fight it,
the principles she represents.

Charity,
because of her,
that's all there is for me in this life,
hardship,
she can handle it,
surgery wasn't kind,
her body is fragile,
but she doesn't mind.

She held me as a child,
she holds me still as an adult,
love without limit,
I like to think that she'll hold me,
even as I die.

Sell out,
give up your soul,
seed in place of satire,
nurture your money tree,
spread the disease.

Patron of the arts,
never an artist,
always an adult,
blue-blooded realist,
always aware.

Grandiose,
platinum soul ringing out,
bills stacked to the roof,
really dear man,
what is truth?

You sold yourself,
of that there is no doubt,
fools curse your fortune,
but who can blame you for a system,
that we created in the first place?

A change of heart,
scraping at behavior,
a hope of better days,
not always so easy.

Reinvention of idealism,
rebirth of the renaissance,
a truth or a lie,
who's to say?

Love is right,
but not enough,
the world is cold,
and though the lines are connected,
this doesn't make it relevant.

An old man's dream,
fire in the bones,
future no longer two toned,
wrought with silver-screen,
and fed to the hearts of youth,
*like me.

Gray is the color of complacency,
and rightly so,
it shows the dullness of apathy,
cold and metallic.

White is color of purity,
and rightly so,
its cold warmth,
its softness,
it is better by far than gray,
but shares still its scale.

Red is the color of rebellion,
and of passion,
and rightly so,
red is deep and powerful,
encompassing rage and defiance alike,
and for this reason I choose red.