She didn't always wear her shirts buttoned.
Most of her clothes had zippers anyway;
hoods and thumb holes displayed
what she wante to be, but couldn't.
She was stuck somewhere in the gray.
The forced rebel climbed the vine
of constant chase and ran fast
from her fear of becoming one of anything
and none of everything else. In time
she tired and none of her masks would last.
A few close scathes and none-escapes
from her wolves sent the young gypsy
on to paler, smoother pastures, and from
the woods, in a little red cape
emerged our unique little fairy.
She's fear and independent drive
mixed with goals and a talent to revise.
Finding love in some things and steering
always toward a future that's internally alive,
but she never strikes the same place twice.
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