West Coast Wendy

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She sat on the end of a splintered pier, the end of seventeen, and the end of glory days

Her feet swinging back and forth, her mind swinging left to right, she contemplates the haze

Her heart is a caged butterfly fluttering in her chest, in her stomach lay heavily, a stone

Looking always ahead into the turbulent seas, never behind where the road led home

The fortress of solitude in the shadow of her mind, besieged by flaming arrows of doubt

Causing her to sit uneasily upon her perch, for muttered curses to dirty her mouth

Not quite a woman, still too soft around the edges, yet too jaded to be deemed a child

Struggling in the bondage of tame expectation, while aware that her spirit is wild

Still new enough to the caustic world to retain a bit of shine

But old enough to see the dogma, to read between the lines

Her rebellion is still a mewling kitten, nowhere near the tiger it will become

But it is learning that it has sharp little claws, and can dance a native drum

The ocean whispers like a maid with a secret, of the awesome, subtle power of water

She knows that with patience she can move those mountains, she is the ocean’s daughter

Little trickles of logic she sends questing downward, searching for the cracks in the wall

And there she hardens herself, expands, until the preconceived notions begin to fall

She is a woman of the moon, a maiden of spring, a poet with stardust on her pages

Ready to rock, ready to roll, ride the stallions of hope through life’s wild stages

 

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