The Smoke In The Wind

She dances ‘round the fire
Twirling colors that could paint the world.
As she kicks the ground to the fiddle’s tune
You watch her stories unfold.

She makes her mark
She breaks the bark
Weaving ribbons of tales untold
But she wont move into town
For folks would stare, clenching their daggers
Burn her alive for the legends of old.

She walked to town, pure
Once when she was eight
Exploring their coble streets
And their iron gates
    She hesitated
It smelled
Smelled of rot and rust
The stench oozing from their houses
Soon she saw the cages
And burnt platforms seen as stages
She saw the shadows moving for the light
And those who had never put up a fight
Stepping backwards she cried
She knew she would never be one of their tied

So she stayed in her world
Filled with gold’s and burgundies
Making poetry of purpose,
power and pity.
For words she will share
And rhymes she will sing
But don’t dare question her
For her words can sting. 

And every once and awhile
She’ll revisit that town.
Amused by their plagues
And their crowns to which they bow down 

You see her smile as she stirs her brew
For you know she is the wind.
A stallion not tamed, just true
She’ll never tremor or scowl or frown
For she is a gypsy traveling to the next town.