There are pictures in a gallery

I curate in my mind,

they’re made from words

and hung with twine,

and in these perfect pictures,

I can see that you are mine.

A radiant array of rhetoric,

carefully composed,

clad in colored consonants

that leave my heart exposed.

A simple skirt of syllables

that sits on slender hips

and slowly draws the eye

from waist,

to chest,

to lips.

A portraiture of poetry,

hung on haiku hair.

Laconic, lilting, lyricism,

like sonnets made from air.

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