Saturday, February 25, 2012


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!

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