Confessions of a Gypsy
I knew this day
Would one day
Come upon me.
All alone
In the cold
Gentle Breeze.
The soft wind
Combs through
My Auburn hair.
I shiver in solitude,
Believing it my
Entire existence.
But what should I
A maiden solely be
Assured by my volition?
Why should I care?
I walk alone with
A gentle creed.
“Me, myself, and I,”
I say to thine own self,
Fueled not by a belief in love.
For men turned into frogs
With every kiss, with
Skin upon skin.
God save me now!
Dare me to soar
With air from a lover’s lungs!
For no one believes
Or cares if I am
Both saint and sinner.
A queen and beggar.
A lady and gypsy.
All of heaven and hell.
Until love sought me out,
On a vibrant day,
Blessed by stars.
In the naked sun,
Gentle, kind, a man
Most consider a frog.
Some say he is not,
As holy and pure
A teacher like Rasputin.
Some say he is lustful,
Hungry for power and drink,
Simply another Rasputin.
“You’re a woman,
Pure and sweet,”
He whispers.
It is what I want,
All I wanted,
From a savior.
Is to call me a
Woman, not his
Prized trophy.
To remind me
Who I am, in all
My gypsy soul.
