In the Grip of a Gypsy


In his mind she is the unmelting iceberg ~ the unconquerable highland ~ insanity wrapped in a cloak of a doomed fate ~ the arrow unleashed into his heart ~ she’s a woman ~ even in the wildest of his fantasies impenetrable ~ untraceable ~ untouchable ~ unlovable. He is alone in his strife ~ can’t help but fill the vacuum of his infatuation bubble ~ he is in love. True or false ~ this he fails to prove ~ yet he waits and waits and waits. Wait is time ~ time is patience ~ and what do you know about patience or time or wait ~ only words may fill up the vacuum and suck out the life of boredom ~ the man is always honored to seek martyrdom ~ in a love he sees a sacred mission ~ she is not holy ~ yet her holiness has a differing definition. In his heart she is a desert rose ~ a desert storm ~ she must belong in the land of chonic drought ~ yet her chastity quenches his doubt. She is a gypsy ~ stole his heart on a shiny morning ~ danced with bare feet in his heart ~ unplanted his heart away from its veins ~ wrapped in a blazing fear of losing in the sweetest yet sacred of warfares ~ she is still colder than cold ~ her resistance rages like a cold wind blows on a northern land. In her heart he is a man of words ~ his passion draws a lustrous flicker on her virgin walls ~ vanilla smells sinful on her skin ~ derails her unblinking resistence ~ yet his love she defies ~ singed beyond repair ~ brutalized in a not so distant past ~ recreated a cell of well-engineered bars of doubt ~ erasing pathways to where her land is sought by lovers and thieves of a heart so sad and tired. There’s a lump in her throat ~ her bitterness revives her wounds ~ she is a loner ~ lonesome brings her the brightest chirps ~ yet he vows to mend her quirks ~ bring  joy to her smirks ~ feed her drought with his unwavering faith in her city’s stingy skirts.  

May K.