The wrongs of passage
Grafted on the young,
She deftly steps aside,
And keeps her stride
Out where the pearls of joy are brung,
And decorously strung,
Along the straits of passage.
 
They take payment unkind:
But that won't be her way.
She owns herself, she does,
She always has, and always was
Beyond the reach of yesterday
And when she wants a thing, she'll pay,
And never ever pay in kind.
 
At least, it can be hoped:
For it is only with intent
That all the storms that wreck a life -
The heart's dark tumult, with its strife -
Can keep her heart from being spent
In places it was never meant.
I'm sure she will, at least
 
I hope