A child's hope with nothing but a flower.
He hopes to claim all that he sees.
He sees her.
She is as a block of stone;
solid and unwavering,
strong, she stands alone.
A child's hope
He remains;
he waits;
he listens;
and watches.
She moves with divine grace,
nothing but poise upon her face.
Smiling that calm and collected smile
with power that one thousand suns dare not match.
Yet she still stands;
solid as a wall of brick.
So he waits;
until the end,
the end of light,
the end of hope,
the end of it all;
He will listen.
He will watch.
He will wait.
With nothing but a hope; the hope of a child.

What is beauty?
Is it measured by the hair?
If this is so, then she is beauty.
With hair so long and flowing,
golden-brown and glowing.
Is it measured by the eyes?
If this is so, then she is beauty.
With eyes so dark and pure,
their allure that holds your gaze.
Is it measured by the smile?
If this is so, then she is beauty.
With smile so wide and bright,
shining out with brilliant light.
Is it measured by the mind?
If this is so, then she is beauty.
With intellect so sharp and quick,
so fast its blinding, so smooth its soothing.
It is measured by the voice?
If this is so, then she is beauty.
With voice as soft as summer rain,
as fresh and sweet as spring's first honey.
Or is it measured by all of this and even more?
If this is so, then she is beauty.