She

She is doggedly determined to be right
and doggedly determined to be wise.
She is disconnected,
and her anger is subtle at times.
At times
she is fire,
she is
antithesis.
In the summer
she is tragicomedy.
In autumn
she wilts.
What is her attraction to man?
She is blindsided
and arrogant.
Her movements are restrictive
and her walk is purposeful,
but she has no here to there.
Naive,
that’s what I would call her.
She is doggedly naive
and is fitted with a collar.
In her eyes
she sees freedom,
she has more choices
she
does not think herself gullible,
easily led.
Yet it doesn’t take much.
Just the right amount of inflection,
or the well - timed smile
and she is
without hope
and pathetic.
In the winter she goes back
from here to there more frequently.
She sees nothing,
for nothing is in front of her eyes,
and she has no reason to look
from side to side.
So she thinks.
In her mind
she is a self made heroine,
a leader among her kind.
But she is flappable,
with the smallest resistance.
She is weak
under her velvet facade.
A damaged stone,
tragic as it were.
At times she is spring,
but she has no control of this.
No control; this is her fear,
her misery.
She is misery,
and love less.