Virago

Her manner always myriad, where a life is blown, unlike mine let it be said, never mean she calls the sea, an artists bright unknown, for this old has been, if in danger of losing cred, she cries don't frown, says I'll see you less, you never leave this street, and cannot pray for calm, she shakes her keys, with lipstick instead, her skin golden brown, she lights my bed, a loving heed, for all I've known, not for her a sense of ease, our daily bread, is warm as toast, she who lightly treads, down my path alone.