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  *It's all going to be ok baby, I just want you do know how much I care for you*



* I had a wonderful wonderful time this morning, Thank you so much baby*

Goodbye Horses - Lazzarus
He said, "All things pass into the night"
And I said, "Oh, no sir
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_DVS_303kQ

Humpty Dumpty - Aimee Mann
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put baby together again
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZjDr8lfLZZE

Wild Horses - TRS
Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them some day
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhwwCWkmYoc

Indochine - La chevauchée des champs de blé
Les chevaux au galop
on les retient vers les champs de blé
prends mon chemin enfin
en chevauchée des étriers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vilhOmIuhjc

This song is beautiful just like the lady that posted it





*Hands you a rose and kisses you*

  FOX.   mmmm Smells beautiful.

Beauty

It is painful
when a beautiful woman
walks alone through a crowd.
She must tread on eggshells
which burst into violet birds
at the touch of her feet,
her figure forever lit from without,
even while folding inwards,
like some dream-burning bit
of origami paper.
She must move
against a fragile paper wall,
forced to step prudently,
as if on the ledge
of a wishing well –
one foot placed in front of the other,
the presentation as careful
as Japanese kaiseki delivered
on dragon-shaped china –
and all this
not for the sake
of being a lady,
but to avoid
jarring awake
the night sleeping on the scales
balanced against her torso.
Enough to think about,
this pilgrimage of one woman
and the world,
but also she will be followed
by everyone’s watching,
waiting for a sign
of pain, a wince
of loneliness,
an invitation or
a slippage from grace –
to catch a glimpse
of this sometime-dancer
in the wings,
probing her spine
for evidence of inner protest.
For everyone around her
will assume that she has just emerged
from a battle of wills
held in some strange, forbidden place,
from a museum, say, in which
she spent the night,
a stowaway claiming
her birthright, sleepless
and staring down the portraits
which were painted to multiply beauty,
to certify, sanction, and give it witnesses,
to escort its wildness,
its radical otherness,
through the galleries of time.

Cynthia Gralla