the world as she knew it had nothing to say
so she breathed in the air and looked here and there
to find that illusive crown of contentment.
Perhaps way up high beyond her eyesight
or buried maybe in the bowels of the earth
and then the tears fell from that gypsy grown old.
and she can’t resurrect the sadly decayed
and she wondered how to ever give up
her quest for that most amazing crown.
and she listened like gypsies are prone to do
until finally, finally, the words “make your own”
cavorted and danced demanding attention.
and a pattern made up with the years of her life
and she knew that soon, maybe sooner than then,
she would wear her own crown of contentment!