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Edit box size: ⇓ More rows Reset to default size ⇒ More columns '''Metamorph''' There's something about him... The fall of his hair, His coy little smiles and His long absent stare, The stretch of his fingers, The swell of his chest, The stoop of his shoulders All work to suggest— There's something about him; He isn't like my Few others at all, but I couldn't say why. The scratch of his stubble Reminds me that he Is one thing, but still All my senses agree— There's something about him I can't quite define. His hands stray across me, Disarming as wine. His heart never opens; His mind's never still; I seem to discern, If I bend all my skill— There's something about him. It hasn't a name That captures the essence In one solid frame. It hasn't the strength To ignite, like a flint, But reason compels me To take as a hint— Those eyes full of darkness, Of passion, of pain, The blue-gray-and-green Of the sky after rain, Of pale gentle laughter, Compassion, command, The stern looks that beckon And cow and demand, The soft looks that weaken, The stroke of a hand... These change my perception And end the deception Of our misconception. Do you understand? Can't they all understand— There's something about her... The slant of her face, Her full tender lips And her trembling embrace Take her out Of the order I've learned And make her Into something She wasn't Before: A woman. -- This is a minor edit.
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