Thursday, April 19, 2012

Gypsy lady

The gypsy lady’s gone to sleep
on a bed of thorns and roses
and one could say she’s dead
if not for the breath of life
flowing in and out.

The thorns beget a sob
and of the roses they beget
a sigh for things long gone
but she murmurs like a dreamer
held in the arms of love.

When eyelids flitter so, just so,
I think she’ll wake to be
a gypsy lady dancing
but still she sleeps; there must be grief
that keeps her comatose.

There’s a wilting now in process
as winter falls upon the scene
and soon no bed to lie upon
for that sleeping gypsy lady.

The gypsy lady’s gone to sleep,
there’s nothing left for her to keep,
and so she sleeps unmindful of
the dry and brittle soon to snap.

Pass by, pass by; there’s no desire
in eyes closed to a world
that offers up so many lies
in denial of the truth!

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