Delecate

Delicate

kind,

brave,

 and cheerful maybe

Delicate

Butterflies,

Gather round him as he stretches out his arms,

Covering him,

With their,

Soft,

Delicate wings,

Birds,

Roost oh his fingers,

And make nests,

In his hair,

Lambs,

Rest at his feet,

And dogs,

Put balls,

In his hands,

With the sun,

Gently sleeping on his shoulder,

He drifts through the air,

His feet,

Like petals,

Cushioning the ground,

He stopping,

To watch,

The ants go marching past.

Mel Gibson,

In his kilt,

Running through the highlands,

The winds,

Blowing high,

Raising an eyebrow,

Or two,

Fighting the dastardly English,

Beckoning,

His countrymen,

To rise up

Destroy,

Devastate,

Die,

And,

Protect,

Was inspired,

By a tale,

Yet to be told,

Of a man,

With a heart of gold,

A man,

Who will redefine,

Who will make,

Who will create,

That legend,

Who,

The man himself,

Will have cold sweats,

Late at night,

That man,

Who,

Will turn around,

When the rest are running,

That man,

Who will shoot first,

Then,

Show the rest,

How its done,

That man,

Who lives now,

Yet,

Belongs with the legends,

And the myths,

That Braveheart,

Who Mr Gibson,

Took,

And planted in folklore.

Perhaps,

Cheerleaders,

Are there for one thing,

Perhaps,

They jump and dance,

Shout and sing,

Clap,

And roll around,

Perhaps,

They are for him,

Aiding and abetting,

His smile,

Perhaps,

They cheer,

Because he is there,

He thinks,

A smile,

Forming around his lips,

That laugh,

Tickling his throat,

Those tears,

Resting,

Near his eyelids,

Are better,

Shared with two,

Then alone,

Perhaps,

That cheer,

Is full,

So,

He needs to share,

So it isn’t wasted,

Flowing out,