Libran Grace

I turn internal, trapped in the furnace of life And who is it that turns to me, softly, Easily, naturally It is she! Her movement is like the wind— One moment she is flying off in some nether region, The next, she is a breeze of beauty brushing against my face Content and cool, Fervent with consolation A gait demanding attention and a pose Breathing art and intelligence Her silhouette melts in my arms In the dead of night, she is a precious child And in the day, her fur glistens red A lazy gleam in her eye as the sun kisses her frame A gothic angel with attitude, She is there like a Proverb on a trying day, Simply simple, perfectly perfected She reminds me of what love really comes from The source of the winds lead to her fairylike touch I rest assured by her presence, That in them I shall never depart From her breathes of sheer delight and art Her coat ripples in response to my grievances Her whiskers tic in my cries for repentance, She possesses the ability to observe and remain To comfort and sustain Playful magic beating in her paws She lightly treads upon my fears As her pupils enlarge, watching intently, Claws readied to pounce on its ugly movement She loves to abolish discomfort Whilst maintaining her loveliness Yeah, she never wastes her time Where she appears, she surely wants to me If there is dread she will devour If there is no respect, she will fly So when she graces me with her presence With her healing breezes, I receive her with a relieving sigh