She – Seven.
In the sunlight facing westward she sat,
Not looking at anything but,
The book of cheaper romance,
More beauty inside than outside found,
Still upon the dry clean sheet the pencil I pressed.
Between the curly hair her pretty face shined,
And what dark part, the graphite pencil can draw,
Mind can’t figure out still the silhouette slowly started,
To appear on the sheet from her left temple that glowed,
The kind face of sun in every ray from her reflected.
The line the pencil drew so smooth,
Towards the eyebrow bending,
Then the dark eyebrow draw, curved,
The brittle eye lashes covered the edge of the eyes,
The eyeballs were hard to fix,
As if in a dream, fast they moved.
And a little bulge my pencil felt,
As a little smile upon her face blossomed,
As the pencil curved through her cheeks,
And came all the way towards the only ear I can see,
Between those curly hairs pointed hide and seek it played.
From the outlines the pencil went,
To copy the fainted shadows,
The smiling, rosy cheeks leave around the eyes,
Oh’ I can see the rays of the evening sun fight,
To land upon those eluding eyes.
Then the pencil went about to draw her nose,
A little curve that went up to a rounded tip,
Those little nostrils where the air she breathed,
Oh’ that heart gets its air from those, I wondered,
As the three dimensional touch the pencil finished.
Then what remained were those lips,
They twisted and many times whispered,
That which she read and those occasional smiles,
The pencil in my hand as it finished her lips shivered,
As deep into mind the image of a beautiful face, merged.
Oh’ with an apologetic mind I walked away,
As deeper and deeper into her romance she fell,
Not knowing through the tip of a pencil an artists too,
Felt a little crush at a beautiful poetry,
The unimaginable supreme being wrote.
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