Throwing Stones at Blood and Bone
A part of me is a gypsy.
Fluid, electrifying and homeless.
She’s a siren out of water
She’s a magical mess.
A part of me is a preacher.
Cursed by a soulful obligation to giving
She’s a charitable loose cannon
Unsure of how to treat herself like she is living.
I see what it is to be a gypsy.
She is happier than me
Because she does just as she wishes.
She loves only when one needs her love-
And I grew up shy of gypsy kisses.
I see what it is to be a preacher.
He is sadder than me
Because he isn't with whom he belongs
He manipulates a success wherever he’s invited
But we've both missed home all along.
I’m anxious and full of motion
Somewhere in the middle –
A loose cannon treading water
With no destination in sight.
She says I’m a bitch and a liar
Maybe she is right.
He says I’m a pistol and a philanthropist
Maybe he is right.
I wonder if a gypsy is always a gypsy.
A free spirit, never eternally bound.
She will go when the wind wills her away
But she is the fastest at settling down.
She acquires quite the tribe of souls in her ways
She is a wolf mother-
She leads a pack of strays.
She is a settled gypsy now,
Leaving her soul food outside her door
And she resents that I need not be carried,
That I don’t eat it anymore.
I wonder if a preacher is always a preacher
With story after story to tell
He’s both exaggerated and nonchalant
He’s impossible to know very well.
He holds close to his pod and his responsibility
He is an orca father-
Who passively protects his whole family.
He is an aged preacher now,
Who has told all his best history
He’s waiting for something before he goes home
I’m not ready to know if it is me.
I’m swimming in the depths
Somewhere miles from the shore.
I am working my way inland
To a place I've been before.
The gypsy in me takes the long way
But I’m slowly going home.
So I can settle with whom I belong-
And wait to make history of my own perceiving.
There is a preacher who deserves home
And a gypsy with a lot to learn about leaving.