If my Higher Power came to me, many nightfall’s ago, and said…
‘You, now you are a gypsy!’
Would I have built a response?
Would I have shaken the salted, sweat from a brow…
Cleared a throat and responded with…
‘No, that is not what I want!’
Or, as I often query…had the convention of conventional…already given away my seat…
Offered it up to menacingly clean travels and permanent regulations of…
standard manners in which to be.
As honest beckons the spirit animal in me…
irregular and offbeat appears to be my welcomed disease.
It does no good to look toward pain for, yet, another day.
It will await me either way.
IT will hold my hand, as it always does.
Making love to me with ITS vicious touch.
I will pay respect to the searing stab, as I always do.
I will allot transgressions…their due.
But I am a proud woman warrior in bohemian clothes.
And, as vague ability diminishes.
So shall my inner strength grow.
when the battle between pain and I reunite…
I will go on fighting well into the night.
How youthful, one foot in front of the other.
How gallantly innocent, these long hauls without a stall.
Rounds of cheer,
There in yesterday…
How frivolous, indeed, the forest that I borrow.
What a tryst, these walks, unlimited.
Me, and, my bohemian ways, dearly wed.
So, in someways, a line is cast.
Shallow waters running fast.
To which, the obvious,
an eternal misstep from the past.
Get it back.
Got to get it back.
Not in trying, do I lack.