She has a quiet peacefulness,
Gently touching those who wade in her presence.
A soothing voice,
Reaching out to an opened ear.
Violently she can rise to an impassioned fury,
Destructive; dangerous in her reach.
Screaming anger,
She yells out to beware her wrath.
Rolling toward, she offers herself willingly,
Pulling back, daring to take her on.
Fiercely she attacks all who stand their ground,
Leaving dismissively as if never having appeared.
Returning swiftly over and over again,
Gracefully departing with equal consistency.
She is home to countless who live within her love,
Embracing against her breast all that breath her life.
With total abandon she bombards years of perfectionist creation,
The slap of her hand eroding what has stood through time.
She is stubbornly independent,
Basking in a freedom that cannot be tamed.
She is hopelessly dependent,
Wilting at the whim of men, who contaminate her heart.
She is alive; beautiful.
She is withdrawn; ravaging.
She is a million built continuities,
An equally measured marked discrepancies.
She is all that.
[Written for me so long ago...]
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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