In those oxidized weave
Of rhinestones and wire work
And then of your essence
Maybe the summer sun shines better
If you step out into it
Or maybe the roses bloom to compete
Against you blush, as you laugh
Such parallels, such metaphors
They are not to impress
They seem to be as true
For the poet sees a different you
Your mirrors and you may beg to differ
But the sun nor the roses prefer
They are mine, yours are yours
And yet mine are yours too.
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