Hair of an angel
Finer than harp strings
More golden than the sunrise
In perfect temperate springs
Her face contains her kindness
Her willingness to help
Her understanding of the world
Her understanding of herself
Her lips are red like fire
I can feel their heat right now
They fill me with tremendous desire;
Desire that only begets a frown

Her eyes, Her eyes the most of all
Drawn me in and make me weak
Her eyes have the power to make me small
Make light out of all that was bleak
Her eyes are like a spider's web
And I am but the fly
I'm ensnared in her eyes again
Waiting, ready, to die.