Thought-pauses on you, you
Lean spare thing - limbs
Stiff as winter twigs, body
Unbowed by any weight.

This brittleness is an outside
Trait.  I surmise, inside lies a
Rich course, a red vein, a pulse of
Crimson and of force, a play

Of paleness and remorse yet you
Need no support, you have
Hardheadedness, you are your own
Recourse, your own man.

I only know those hazel eyes of yours
Are olive-gold; your brows a rough
Brushwork unusually luxurious - belie
Your fragility and speak of fine things

Untried, tales untold, strength yet to
Fully unfold.  I know not the right approach
To such a black and brittle wood.
Should I back-away or should I circle

Cunningly?  Unknowing, I do neither,
Simply stand and stare, outdone, unaware
Of what keeps me here pinned to that
Navy hair, indrawn to the gold in those 

Green eyes.  I am pained as I try
To analyse this game - only know
My wish is not to be 
Won or sold again.
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