That gypsy sat

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!