His Face

It all started from a dream, a mans
Face became everything, I cared less
About the young ones and more about him.

The lines are beautiful, etched by the
Most honest figure of all, time who
Scratches away at her canvass with each
Passing tick tock of the clock.

The ones around his eyes betray the
Suffering, the clenched hoods and fallen
Tears alluded to by only these little

The ones around his mouth, he looks so
Stern when he is candid, yet so devilish
When he grins. The lines here, like there
Are a wonder to behold. Beauty etched upon
A face.

The grey hair, nay, the silver, shows that
He is more precious to this world than life.
Wisdom shoots up through the wild curls, causing
Them to glow under any light.

To you he may be luck lustre, or worse you
May think him old. True he is fifty seven,
Yet somehow he is magic, the fire in my heart
Is lit from the icy fire of his eyes. His
Voice is music, can’t you hear it? Oh don’t
You want to surrender, to praise him!

Oh, and let’s not forget those wispy yet
Aggressive brows, so much speaks through them.
Yes, you may have guessed it is Peter Capaldi.

His face is the one in my dreams…


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