SHE

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.’