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Once ago, only a sheet of paper...
Now, a piece of art...
But the art itself... The picture itself...
Is of little meaning to me...
It's the person in the drawing.
It's for him I write this poem:
Where to begin?
Your lips are those of a fairy tale prince,
Touched in a dark way, with snake bites.
Behind those lips, the voice of a most peculiar being...
At times, that voice is so soft... so sweet, that it makes me want to smile as I cry, it is so beautiful.
Angels envy it...
Yet sometimes you sing like the howling, screaming demons of hell...
Your voice raining fire, acid, and bombshells on people who've hurt you, and your friends...
The devil himself can't sound as threatening, as you protect the kids like me,
So hurt by so many...
Your voice is always one of love.
The voice of a Saint...
One forgotten by the Heavens, and also by the Hellions.
A Fallen Angel on Earth, you thrive.
Your hair is as black as the soul less devils you scream at,
But more beautiful that anything, the way it gently encircles the pale skin of your face.
Your eyes are the bluest I've ever known...
More brilliant than diamonds, bluer than the sky, and shining like the stars in Heaven...
But your looks on the outside...
Mean very little to me...
What I love most?
You pour it into everything you do.
In all that you are, there is beauty and love...
Your heart is not of gold...
Gold s cold, and hard...
Your heart is of flesh and blood.
True, noble, strong, but so soft...
Your heart is as mine is...
And this is why you mean so much to me.