Sockets laying low, like a swing with to much rusted chain.

Corneas harshened with florescent grass viridescent  and sky aquamarine.

Snout pointy as the tip of a lustrous knife silver blade, and facing diagonal like a canon before fire.

Two ample, pale, cushions, keeping guard about my mentum.

Little brown chocolate chips, melting upon every inch and centimeter on my countenance.

A mane full of lingering threads colored chestnuts.

Physique of Irish, pure skin filled with angel kisses.

Two stubby branches hanging in action, waiting to be reactivated.

And two vertically challenged limbs, pudgy and not operational.

My presence, positioned vertical, gazing into a transparent sea of glass.