The first time I met her, I was mesmerized.
She was poetry in human form.
Sydney was her name—let me tell you,
she was poetry in human form.
Perfection, from start to finish.
Each stanza—shaped flawless.
Hair flowing like cursive on paper.
Her eyes told the story,
her lips wrote the words.
Her voice, a gentle tone.
Her presence carried the cadence of a flawless verse.
Her smile—the perfect ending.
Her walk, like the stroke of a pencil,
writing every line with intention.
She was poetry in human form.
The imagery burned into my mind.
She echoed through my thoughts,
leaving me hungry to read more.
For she was unlike any other—
she was poetry in human form.
— Joseph Cousineau