The twist of tendrils falling low
draping shoulders like a magic cloak
binding the embers
locked up tight never to be released
like forever on a strand
intertwining coarse to the touch
cared for with precision handled with love
each twist holds the answers
the question still on your lips
who could imagine such beauty as this
strong like wool they capture stares
the locked beauty can never be theirs
imitation is flattery some may say
but you hate what you cannot be
but yet imitate me.
the strength of the shaft
the tight curl pattern now tamed neat
palm rolled or sister loc'd to perfection
true strength in numbers all loc'd down
falling on shoulders like a cloak.
