Grin

Fluttering in the wind, a robe,
Lush green vibrance, unforgotten.
Dust in the grooves of the fabric so old,
A network of rivers dried up.

The musty smell of dusty fabric,
Wafting through the fresh night air.
Tingling my nose,
As the fragrance reaches me.

Grin’s penetrating deathly glare,
Piercing my soul like knives.
Pupils black as the ocean deep,
With flecks of indigo.

A storyteller Grin is,
Sharing some of his tall tales.
With a voice like jagged rocks,
He rambles on.

The imperfection of my Grin,
Tiny little flaws.
Chipped off sections, peeling paint,
Do they matter? No.