Her hair cascades in waves that shine like fine obsidian
Her eyes, the green and cooling sheen of winter wearing thin
Her figure, well-defined; her mind, it seems does little much
I can control, for on her soul, a sign reads, “Look, Don’t Touch”
Her skin so pale, as if it hails from polished alabaster
Her voice, resolved, it leaves absolved the pains I cannot master
Her spirit, dark, perhaps a lark, or maybe just a crutch
For inner woes—Why? No-one knows. The sign reads, “Look, Don’t Touch”
Her artistry, soon history, still leaves my passions racing
In photographs, she rarely laughs, yet by them, I go pacing
The warning’s there, it’s hardly fair, and I have thought, as such
That rules be damned, I’ll take her hand, and Look inside her Touch.
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Notes&Sketches 
Great poem Trevor…