A gypsy is born from a woman who is not afraid of herself.
A woman who can pull blossoms from the decay and one who can stand to face her monsters.

It is not easy being a woman, much less a free spirit.
It takes a fearlessness,
a hunger for everything true and beautiful;
even when once discovered what she finds is not what most believe to be true and beautiful.

A gypsy exists far from things like comparison and envy.
She sleeps with creatures full of soulfulness and spirit and
basks in the light of the sun and the moon.

A free spirit understands the life or death need for creativity and orchestrates her life around it.

My sorrow is as rich as chocolate
and heavy as silver,
it falls on top of my body and coils into my chest beside the place where the red roses grow in the sun.

It is comfort to taste the warmth of grief.

I can feel you with every step and remember where you laughed beside me.
This garden grows up from the earth like you grew from within me; any strangeness and sadness I know is from the loss of you.

I don't believe in god in the traditional sense of the world.
I see him inside the beaten bodies that refuse to crumble,
inside bruises and wounds,
weathered skin and brittle bones.
God is the fight.
God is the ******* fight.

You have the presence of a twirling gun in the wrong hands,
a way of drawing the eyes of everyone in the room without having to say a single word.
I couldn't decide if you were my worst nightmare or
my screaming salvation.
The thing is,
I had never felt more alive until joy and a trigger were mere inches from one another.

You.
You look like the enlightenment centuries before it happened.
I want to go inside your mind and find discovery.
You.
Your smile, that was the greatest gift I've ever received.
You look like the envy of the other elements magnificent
against a mountain back splash.
Monumental.
Magnetic
Magical.
All the M words I can conjure up on this quiet somber morning.
All the M words but above all Mother.