It holds itself to your will,
it is only a suggestion, it hides in your hair.
Winter snow so pink upon my brow, the snow, is
grace, not by the ugly plow, it's ugly mouth.
Yet your will hides my face, birthed Beneath a skirt, it's
warm, safer place my haven, from crows beseech ed.
Tender it, with your kisses, be bold as the lioness, charge.
Hold the poet, within you, eat the word live them.
Does it hold your world, to drink the rose, for nothing?
There is no door, it is your mind, you climb over to rush it.
It is the blush, Niagara falls, to swell it's glory, in your smile,
as the waves lap gently as a lion in sleep.
Is It Poetry
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/is-it-not-suggesting-is-it-poetry/
