Across thy nose, a spray of freckles found.
Why would the Maker tarnish such a sight
As yours? You think to hide and pan the ground,
And only raise your eyes within the night.
The slightest imperfection, some may say,
Makes beauty run and hide, to shed a tear,
But I desire them all, to shun? O’ nay!
To cherish them, not see, as they appear.
No cheek is fairer lo! These lips of mine,
To press upon soft skin, to feel the rush
Of coursing blood, each aching pulse divine;
Beseech thy kiss! The damask’d rose would blush.
 Perfection for the one who sees with eyes,
 Will blinded be, for love wears no disguise.
 
Ferrick Gray
© 2017
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