Footsteps in the morning, footsteps in the night'”
Soft words in the morning, lovely words spoken as a Heaven bound soul takes flight.
Looking through the windshield wipers, watching as other’s scurry into their homes’
Sometimes looking in open windows as we pass by wondering what it’d be like to not forever roam.
Seeing warm lights flooding a cozy living room with a happy family engrossed in conversation ‘
Obvious to the icy rain falling on the passing cars through dodging orange markers for the latest construction'”
Watching the city lights rise and fall, the sun come up, the moon rise, the stars fall.
We ride endlessly through yet another night, knowing for us no one remembers to call.
Everyone romances the gypsies, as they believe the life it is carefree and light.
Yet it is often in the darkest and coldest of nights that the gypsy must set the foot a flight.
A tumble weed at heart never seeing the road that leads home.
Rushing about, earning a wage, striving to live but one more day, knowing only the sound of the highways moan.
Tasseled, hassled, ragged and always in a hurry, a “jack of all trades”.
Fast in a hurry, working to avoid many conflicting raids.
Gypsies a colorful array, a mystery to some, a by-word by others, yet still they roam.
Wandering slowly, wandering, searching evermore for a non-existent home.
Deemed by society to be homeless, they float from place to place.
Occasionally stopping just long enough to look the spectators in their prideful face'”
The prideful open their eyes wide, shocked to see a face as naive as their very own.
Both stand and stare, prideful still yet they both turn to hearts cut from polished stones.
One stone rolled, tossed and turned, polished and sparkling with a starry shine.
The other stone rough, jagged, and filled with a complaining whine.
Footsteps, stepping softly through the darkest night, catch hold the unsuspecting soul.
Prideful and full of vanities, the well-heeled individual attempts to hide from the final bell’s toll.
Footsteps, stepping swiftly catches hold the outstretched hand.
Humbled and full of many days, the ragged individual knows that today he’ll walk on the promised sand.
Sandy shores, just outside Heaven’s gate sparkle and dazzle like no earthly city lights'”
How soon the wandering gypsy’s soul has taken the final flight.
My friend, the eyes see only the outside.
So often we stare and compare, setting a world’s standard, because of our own vanity and pride.
Look away, look away over yonder, and tell me what do you see?
Do you see only the outside or do you see the blood that was applied, to set each one free?
In vanity and pride we see only the surface.
In our ignorance we never look beyond the rags, beyond the circumstances to see the soul’s true place.
Believing all are lost and undone, we never take the time.
The time to see that circumstances have left one without a dime'”
My friends, look away, look away, look far away.
The one you’ve so oft snubbed for you did often pray.
Prayed for mercy and grace in your life'”
Praying blessings for you and never strife —
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