Description: People become so obsessed with cliché love, all fuunny feelings, looking deep into another persons eyes, or sex. Hell with that, Love is not love. love is a feeling, Love is more. Respect and admiration, and a willingness to give oneself to another person even if it hurts, to give up for someone else: sacrifice. This is Love. And I ask one question, could you, in an instant care deeply for someone you don't know, can you Love a stranger?
She Is Cryogenic Misery -------------------------------------------
If bluest velvet could be a liquid
Her eyes would flow loveliness
So pure and simple, literally cliché
Because the truth is simple.
Her eyes speak beauty itself
And my eyes fall victim
To guilty pleasures.
Bluest eyes linger in sockets
Contained by a smooth face
Light, creamy, and pale
Like a ghost in Winter she stares
Seemingly pure but unchaste indeed.
Beauty and pornography
How such subtle opposites should mesh
In absurdity I sit still and one tear falls.
Hair like blond-brunette silk
Straight, flowing, and complete
On a innocent looking face
Like a child so sweet.
In Winter snow falls
To the rhythm of her looks
A coolness not harsh
She stares like a porcelain doll
And I wonder if she cares
About her body in this Winter air.
This coldness cannot freeze the heart
Which beats in pity and sympathy
My chest, my heart, my compassion
For this stranger I know not yet Care.
She smiles out a window frosted lovely
And I stare back through glass
Out a window of Shame,
But do I feel for Her beyond mere pleasure
There must be a reason to cry.
Staring alone about this face I ponder
While she leases herself to the Chill
And ice creepeth closer
I can't go through with this guilty pleasure.
Her image vanishes
She’ll be one less colder tonight.