Garish gnarled just before we reached the nettles she asked. What is a face? Tread carefully because the leaves still think they can hear you even if they cannot and I am asking you in no uncertain terms, what is a face? How can you tell I thought no one could tell how can you see me Ithoughtnoonecouldsee me And That
Looks
A Lot
Like...
What is a face? It smells like flies - and being one I would know - probed the question before you asked but they are always, treading on questions asked to leaves, face and ground. simpering whimpering, it bores holes quickly in the sand like a mudwasp. Whirling whipworms (unpleasant sight, ghastly revitalized eyesockets) but that does not mean you cannot, on this prefabricated hillside, explain thoughtfully amidst the nettles. Face. My eyesockets are still full, and what is a face?
A face?
A face, a place, another human trace,
With scars like hills that role over cheeks
With glancing eyes, seductive, meek
With dimpled smile, with furrowed brow,
With a hint of the past mixed in with now
With little red blemishes or freckles like gold
With that hint of a word, a story untold
With each familiar smile, and each familair flaw
The warmth of a heart that makes ice thaw
And each pretty smile, and each loving touch
I love their little flaws, I love them very much.