The birth mark, no fault of hers,
It only added to her, the thoughts.
Makeup diminished to cover up,
Trying a life, flawless a means.

The sound of her voice, conveying hers,
Polished with caring, even still unique.
To carrying in it, a spirit, lifted up,
Relinquish tears in her dreams.

Each and every day, even in hers, different,
As if she, the only rose bloomed on a tree.
Something new, though the hearts desire,
For the soul’s only beauty mark, is love.

©2008, Ron Globe