His hands are heat, soothing and burning in the same instance.

His eyes are jagged ice, sculpted into the face of an angel.

His voice is salt, flavorful in a pinch, overpowering in a spoonful.

His hair is gnarled knots of warming wool.

His mouth, a tree trunk, gnarled crudely yet breathing still.


He walks in rhythm, stepping to the time of a forgotten drum.

He stands straight, back smooth and even, edged in cold steel.

He runs purposefully, but with hesitation, the wounded animal stirring within.

He fights breathlessly, dancing with the wind’s speed and the elephant’s grace.

He speaks the way a brook babbles, ceaselessly but deliberately.


His arms are castle walls made of sand, beautiful to behold, yet simple to break through.

His legs are pack-mules, stubborn but untiring.

His face is a mist, easy to see but hard to see through.

His shoulders are ship decks, broad and trodden on often.

His peace of mind is the tooth fairy, non-existent.


Driftwood is his back, rotted, wrecked, and beaten ceaselessly by the sea.

Thunder is his demeanor, booming yet ever out-shown.

Poisons are his words, deadly, unpleasant, yet useful in a skilled hand.

Iron are his thoughts, unchanging, brittle, and hard.

Yet a river is his tenderness, running endlessly and watering all.


His fears are dark, storm clouds and sightless depths.

His heart is molten gold, shapeless yet brimming with potential.

His pain is shadow, sometimes faint, sometimes all-encompassing, but always there.

His ego is a modern art sculpture, impossible to miss, yet more so to understand.

His hope is the sky and space above, limitless, and filled with just as many possibilities.


He is a poem, read endlessly, and changing even with the turn of the page.

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