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