“Gypsy,” he whispered swinging a knife at her throat.
But she bundled him in a blanket,  patience and hope.
He was painting their faces to hide all their beauty.
So she was leading her cubs like it was her duty.
He was singing the song of a desperate man’s tongue.
She was flipping her mane in the dawn’s early sun.
He was a memory trashed through the lens of a camera.
She had done what she wished but not how she planned ta’.
Grits in a bowl like miniature maggots.
Freeing her mind behind the puff of a ******.
A favorite place but that place has no door.
He was putting his way on the green of a *****.
Till he learns that he's road **** plucked at by the crow.
The child that is, but just doesn’t grow.