Is she a pre-madonna that has the last say
Is she a diva, a street walker perhaps a home maker
Is she a designer, is she a mother, is she the negotiator or is she the soldier that stands on the frontline of life rifled up with justice and girded up with truth
Those intricate and chiseled lines embedded in her face do tell a story
Is she a church goer, a manipulator or a betrayer
Is she a friend, a reliable sister or a formidable foe
Is she the wife that’s sanctified into believing that the scales balance belongs to her and her only.
Is she the voice of reason or the spirit that easily compells
Not quite sure what lays behind those glazed eyes
Is she the backbone or the pillars that carries the weight of the world both hers and yours?
Is she the ashes that produces beauty or sunlight that appears at the break of dawn.
Is she an introvert that is constantly dissecting every miniscule thing
Could she really be that woman whose shoulders are broad and capable of taking on any task
Could she be the woman that wears all those hats ?
I suppose so!
Maybe she is a wife and a mother after all
Maybe she is the warrior willing to die on the front line
Maybe those glazed eyes have witnessed great sorrow and an insurmountable joy
Maybe those shoulders were the head rest of many lovers who are no longer here
Perhaps she’s a part of history in the making that another generation will read about
Maybe she knows that the pillars are hers to carry because she is capable of carrying such a weight
Maybe she walked the streets because she had no home
Maybe my perception of her is inaccurate and the story is hers
And hers alone to tell.