So that gypsy sat and pondered some
on the form of human love
and saw what should be straight and true
was convoluted, bent.
She scratched the surface, looked inside,
and, lo/behold, a once bright gem
was covered thick and densely with
the moss of an agenda.
How it got there still unknown
but on her travels round about
she knew the ground beneath her feet
had hardened over time.
No longer could she softly tread
and feel the sand between her toes
because there is no give between
the layers of agendas.
Now agendas lie in tandem with
the silence of a lie
and smile their satisfaction
at their invisibility.
Agendas, agendas! There is no magic wand
that clears the underbrush with the flick of a wrist
and who will take the time to find
the unadulterated hard to hold
purity of soul?
It’s only purity that loosens up the base
to enable easy access to that intolerable moss
but being like love not puffed up
it requires a guiding hand to find its hiding place.
“Take my hand!” that gypsy cries
but of her feet, oh, no, no, no,
they hurt each day and suffer more
than ere can be believed.
No longer pondering that gypsy now must wander
so she packs her wisdom deep inside,
her love off to the side,
and trundles over hardened ground
until her sure demise!