Crown

 

When that gypsy grew old and her wagon decayed
the world as she knew it had nothing to say
so she breathed in the air and looked here and there
to find that illusive crown of contentment.
 
When the search was complete her eyes lifted up.
Perhaps way up high beyond her eyesight
or buried maybe in the bowels of the earth
and then the tears fell from that gypsy grown old.
 
She can’t travel high, she can’t travel low,
and she can’t resurrect the sadly decayed
and she wondered how to ever give up
her quest for that most amazing crown.
 
But the sound of silence had plenty to say
and she listened like gypsies are prone to do
until finally, finally, the words “make your own”
cavorted and danced demanding attention.
 
So she settled in with needle and thread
and a pattern made up with the years of her life
and she knew that soon, maybe sooner than then,
she would wear her own crown of contentment!