Strong like a foundation
Rock solid in every way
Her skin is soft as velvet
God built her this very way
She hides most of her fears
Wears all her hats like a boss
She flows against the stream
and is the calm in the chaos
A beautiful mystery to unravel
One layer at at time
Only people close to her
Know the thoughts of her mind
Her eyes show compassion
and fierceness just the same
From the ashes she will rise again
and Woman is her name

There is nothing more constant than change
Everyday it reveals the work that is made

After all we've prayed
We put forth steps
In the directions of its pace

Slowly
Quickly

The metamorphosis of an ugly duckling
Forms the shape of a butterfly

A caterpillar with angels wings

Change is a constant way
Evolving different moods
On a path to never stay the same

As time video tapes change
And takes photos of yesterday
It slips away
Into the future

While she's in her dressing room
Fitted in a new gown
The swan floats the pond
In the most elegant way

Nothing is more constant than change
It is always there

And we could never make it stay the same

She wrote in red letters
Perhaps it was better
Than what she spoke
Everthing I read
Was a whole lot better
Than the lilies
That never toil or spell
Consider the birds of the air
They never reap or sow
She wrote in red letters
Because the effort to talk
Was too burdensome for her mouth
She spilt a bucket of honey
And kept walking
For it was nothing of else
Anger for what thing
Should her blood boil
For a loss of some wealth
She wrote in red letters
While her tongue tied knots
But I heard verily what was said
When I read her books
That were pulled from the shelf

.
So the smoke coils
surrounding a stray thought
clinging to the vine
as it weaves threads
into a tapestry
of fermented grape wrath.
His pen crawls
across the pages of life
and ignores the punctuation,
a plague infected word flow,
his stream of catharsis.
But the babble
intrudes and sounds irk,
sending resentment forward
like an advance guard
to meet the violence
and deflect the onslaught.
And the wave dies
as the aggressor retreats
before motley defence.
But the mood
has been tainted, spoiled,
despite a flirtatious distraction.
And the flame flickers
as the smoke coils,
and tired eyes avert their gaze
from the perceived ***** page,
the excrement of misery
smeared to make nostrils flare,
and the entry is left
incomplete …



© Pagan Paul (06/05/19)