She gazes into the ornate mirror
And what she observes disgusts her.
With a firm rub she wipes away the rouge
For she has had enough of this delusional life
Living without the withered façade would be wise.
With an unadorned face she sets forth
Wondering what waits is warmth or mirth
The former, a balm, the latter, a catalyst;
She wants to be cherished for the person she is
She wants to stop trying, wants to breathe with ease.
Trying to please everyone, trying to blend,
Trying to be in control, trying to heal and mend.
The cycle must cease, a new path must be paved.
Thoughts, spun into speech, speech, stirred into deeds.
She must take unwavering steps, go where her dream leads.
If mother were here, to hold her close
Wouldn’t she talk of the thorn on the rose?
Neither exists without the other, she’d rightly say.
So what if the new boulevard leads away from the known
Bearing the flame of hope and grit, she must venture alone.
Some try to discourage, warning her of failure
Some just mock, running in herds, with a fool’s sneer
Efforts beget success, even on paths that are seldom trodden.
She knows the few rare who stand by, will see her through strife.
Thus she dares to shatter stereotypes and be the master of her own life.
So onwards sets she, peaceful yet eager
In a world of puppets, a free incongruous figure.
‘Watch me’, says her mien, ‘as I follow my heart’.
And as they whisper in clusters exhaling pity, contempt and doubt,
A wise crone smiles, ‘That, dear folks, is a woman fit to be sung about.’