"She"

You cannot make a distinction between her,
An artist, a bibliophile, a feminist, a quiet night;
She is all those sweet September evenings of splashing rose renditions

Living ferociously, loving discriminately,
She is contrary notions that all ring true.

She is like the wind

Each breath flowing into the threshold of vanity

She dreams of an organic soul
Instead of books or the Bolshoi

Or being over privileged with a cat and terrier fix.

She stares into forever’s iridescent bliss

Sees the prime directive in the Stars at night
She witnesses the freedom to believe
In a boat filled with wild horses

And one donkey of ill repute.

She follows no roads that lead to acceptance
Apathy is not an option; she will always pause for those with soul

She is a tremendous amount of kindness
owning every subtle thing.

Veracious in her charm, her mind/body equilibrium
She loves silence and firmness and being a forest hermit
She makes the effort to connect and remain connected

She is metaphorical nakedness of self.

She loves doing angst, despair, joy, ecstasy,
Some dance, some paint, some travel,
Less responsibility and no Starbucks at the terminal

She is authentic.