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Updated: May 10

No artist has been born,

That could bear the task of translating a beauty so warm.

No painter, no sculpter,

Not even a writer lovelorn,

Could tell us what it means,

When a new aphrodite has been born.

She strides with grace,

Learns with finesse,

Flexes with poise,

And quite frankly,

She's never a mess.

Artists may see the colors above the surface,

But have never stopped and wondered,

Who is this light?

Where does she come from?

And what is her purpose?

More than a pretty face,

Much more than a fine waist,

To put her in a box,

Would be such a waste.

Her beauty unfolds,

It splashes in waves,

Both cooling your nerves,

And setting your heart ablaze.

Every curve, every contour,

Every perfect imperfection,

You'd think we'd understand by now,

That her beauty leaves an impression.

Except when she looks at herself,

She fills herself with doubt,

Her heart feels heavy,

As she screams and she shouts.

She feels lost,

She feels forgotten,

She fears her heart may have fallen rotten.

But Aphrodite, don't you see?

You'll never be forgotten.

Step into your power,

Cross the sea,

Set fire to the tower,

And don't fear what all the others see.

You're more than meets the eye,

And the unworthy hide in the shadows of your femininity.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

But I say,


It is her.

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