Gypsies

Standard

I’d never grow the beard

The billowy cotton ball of distinction

A definable mark of classification

From one great thinker to the next

Getting frustrated with infant limitations

And becoming lost within the movements of the day

To gaze into any mirror

Eyes to eyes, I’ve seen them before

A mane to border jawline and highbrow

Tempting lovers and hiding those looks of

questioning wonder

What will become, if and when, red turns to gray, to white

Mimicking the strands down the

faces of whiskers and partially hiding the whispers

of the deep introductions into the

very being of the various lives to live?

 

The state of mind that seems, within each tiny fingered grasp

Of holding fate closer to heart than balancing the weight on top of head;

The heaviest of utopian dreams that seem

attainable, worthy of the burden to carry, says Sally Paradise

of that place of mind that often changes

to accommodate

what can be said over and over

Written words that claim anything

wondered upon

Thoughts of the everyday, of you and me, of creation

of anything colorfully flourishing at all,

until color does indeed dye a softer hue than the once brighter shade that

loses saturation as the excitement of youth slowly subsides

and succumbs to the affordable gray of wisdom

 

I feel misrepresented in choice, this

belief of growing old

Learning the lessons, one by one, until gray hairs

remain the only memories of the past;

But call out for attention demanding the acknowledgment

of character, from all of the other quilted bodies with their

mismatched undertones and uneven layers

of relatable temptations, of whatever,

calls to exist

To call a polymath anything, to give it a name at all

instead of the classical tradition of student to master,

and then again master to student,

Age being mistaken for the roads taken

of gaining knowledge, rather than the movie-like perception

on the road

 

Where we find the

Gypsy trains of Renaissance men and women

dancing through the jungles in their colorful

patterns of metal jingles singing above the group of

women mysteriously chattering, in the story

Where there is always some ancient white bearded man

or semi-toothless, sometimes also bearded, granny

offering their tales of mischief and triumphs and

reliving emotions once passed;

Our elders, who once questioned the kind of feelings examined

by all, and determining our own way of thoughts, right now, like

Remembering those Da Vinci quotes, picturing how

he might look saying anything through his own billowing beard; that

led me to question if there is anyone looking for the

brain in the gilded painting hanging on the wall

or do we all just inherently stumble upon it at the

last stages of life when drawing conclusions is

loud enough for even the next group to hear?

 

I am grateful for all of the storytellers ❤

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