Whistling winds wander throughout the cracks,
the crevices,
the in-betweens, in that of a wisp.
A wisp, a wisp of locks, your hair which lies above you;
possibly the only thing which does,
streams a beautiful brown,
baring your soul
and catching my eye.
They are gates to the great, gorgeous soul within you;
at times graceful, others golden,
but always in some way glorious,
and they bear the burden of temptation towards belief, which buries me.
If bright, white lights are to be expected at time's end,
they are to travel through your hair.
And I,
trembling,
near broken
and cold, stand in awe of the smile surrounding.
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