He is blessed with,
A sun-kissed complexion of olive,
Like the ostrich's plume.
Like the orphic reflection of the moon.
The deep mahogany colour of old bark,
Is laid upon his head.
With fallen strands of an angel's harp.
Rambunctious like a child a lark.
With pools of emerald and onyx for eyes.
Like autumns fire fly's glows.
Like the romantic red rose.
He has ineffable lips,
That recites a charming propensity.
With subtle salmon splash.
Concatenates emotions that are rash?
Now let me foreshorten my love,
The subject I scrutinize the most,
With words I cannot quite understand,
Yet may be used for him to boast:
He is Philomath,
Who tends to be cocooning,
He is wander wanderlust,
Who tends to be moil?
He is altruism,
Who tends to be affable?
He is eclectic,
And art is his métier!
Last I shat preach to you,
The only part of him I can now reach
That types the words I engulf in.