The Dusty Dawn

The beautiful man

His heart was as soft as the appearance of clouds. He pours out rain in the time of his hurt and the people consumes it, bringing forth blooming flowers and rich green trees. So was there spring. His heart was pure, his voice was soothing. It was the nightingale for foolds; the company who leaped after his shoes. No one knew who he was save for myself. I've looked upon him and saw a fierceness within. Almost of a tiger, no, a lion...standing at the peak of rock during a dusty dawn. His mane blew throughout the wind picturing that of burning dandelions. Bright and beautiful to the eyes.  

Author's Note

I believe it needs to be edited, but what do you think of this poem?