Brambles

And as she circles trails

in the forest of remembrances

brambles scratch and pierce

deep in the heart of love.

She’s a gypsy lady ne’er again

to be as she once was

yet still the heart pumps passion

and she would dance again.

She tears at fortitude,

looks deep into composure,

and searches for the truth

as a means of standing still.

Not yet but finally

stillness will o’er lay the world

and that gypsy lady dead

in the coffin of lost love.

But look amongst the brambles

and lift, lift her up,

for the life-blood of a gypsy

flows unchecked into the dirt.

What will it grow, what will it grow,

but nothing grows when all is still

and no one comes to pay respect

to all she was and tried to be!