Generic

Dream-like, 
Tormented sight. 
Eyes, as blue as ink, 
Each strand solely caressing his oak-like skin. 
He glides to and fro 
As if a model uncontrolled. 
A body like a six-pack of ice-cold flames, 
That scent of Ego could drive you insane. 
Trance-like, 
Marvel of beauty. 
To satisfy seems to be his duty, 
Like the rolling of thunder, 
He sweeps through the room. 
Observation begins to glisten 
Furnished like a broom. 
Nonchalant-like, 
Elegance approaches. 
Timorously contemplating the bough of acumen, 
A voice that envelops, 
Words like descending weeds, 
A PrettyBoy it seems to be 
Is empty like a barrel 
Dead like the sea!