Big Words, Small Words Its Really Up To Her
She wasn't a learned woman per se or so I was told,
by the air that surrounded her late in the eve as she talked away;
Its as if she plucked it from the time belt of knowledge,
Nostradamus style, I would say:
Sometimes she addressed Kings & Queens, other times paupers and cats
she wrote like she tasted her words, rolled them around on her tongue,
but other times she blew them through you like wind, sifting through a kite.
Scattered reckless like a hungry seagull, carving a morsel only to die for her trade.
She was water going round a solid rock always turning,
rearranging herself to please everyone and no one.
She suffered no fools except for the man who placed his palms around her,
shaping her like a piece of wet clay.
Playing nice in a world of pipers and mutes, she was a diamond in the rough;
He once told her there was a woman called Helen who made millions,
hosting a show on the tele, she didn't even have a high school degree.
He knew the scattered wild garden she tilled, yes she was a beautiful mess,
one that reminded him of a he, of long ago.
She was a woman with big words and small, who wrote for animals,
humans, aliens, Neanderthals, scientists, priests, and flowers.
She was both the flame and the match, always ready to strike.
Written by: Beautiful Mystic Rose
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