If I were being specific, my dear
I’d say your eyes are magnifique.
But, you’d call it
The art of the trite, my dear.
A disease of the hapless poetic.
My sincerity should lie in suggestion, you say.
This Age is too blunt for matters of the heart.
Specificity delay emotion, makes it senseless play.
Honesty dawns when lovers part.
But, I am an old soul,
Freshly mould in delicate clay.
My love for you
It’s only tiny, unflinching stone.
The image’s specific, wouldn’t you say?