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!