If poetry was a person,
She'd have a heart of glass within,
Flaunting a feather quill finger,
Dipped in her inkwell skin.
Draped in darkness,
She would love night, as I do,
Burning the midnight oil,
Writing tall tales of you.
With a well-dressed vocabulary,
And a mind full of sin,
She'd be delicate to the touch,
Yet filled with fire, to the brim.