What shall I compare thee to my dearest,
I do not wish to fall to false compare,
As though do some who feign to be artists,
Mine heart do not commit to such affair.

For in my eyes you are dark and comely,
Your skin as coloured as fresh blackberries,
With melanin spread across solemnly,
And lips as plump as sweet fleshed strawberries.

Yet why'est thou does thy countenance fall,
And trip into a deep melancholy?,
When reference to thy tone is called.
I tell you my love it is their folly.

For you are a different kind of human,
My perfectly crafted breed of woman.
© Dan_Dave-