streaks of grey began to flood her dark chocolate hair; my heart panged a bit with each new one that grew from her young bright mind.
her voice is tender, gentle. like small waves trickling onto white sand; like tinny chimes rattling in a small breeze. hearing her speak is like taking a moment to listen to all the birds above you singing.
she has always been a beauty; almond-shaped brown eyes that melt one's heart with just one glance; a small dipped nose that curled up with elegance every time she smiled; and oh, her hands.
her hands tell you everything. they remind you of every country she'd visited, every dress she'd sewn, every chair she'd reupholstered, every hand she'd held. they're spotted with age spots; diamonds.
patricia was a lady - one of the only few real ones left. i can only hope that maybe i'll inherit her diamonds someday.
YOU ARE READING
for the dreamers | poetry
Poetry" imagination is the only weapon against reality " - a selection of poems
