she's the eyes that see,
she's the pain that we feel
she is all of it,
all of it because nobody knows and does pain
like her.
there's such grace, a grace unknown to many,
she wakes up in the morning and combs her hair with violence,
does her make up with patience,
irons her clothes,
watches the time go back riding shotgun while I drive,
still never loses track of her performance.
she's got an idea of the world she lives in
yet she doesn't know where it is.
she thinks people think too little of her,
and too often —
nothing further from the truth.
she's the mother of all, with a warm hand,
a perfumed embrace,
a sweet goodbye.