"I wrote this poem for my daughter on the day of her funeral. She was 27 and had created a very difficult life for herself."
She was a woman of fiery power
Who chose her own path—
Hers; no one else’s.
Her strength eclipsed a thousand trials
Under pressure that molds diamonds.
The curves in the road always hairpin turns for her,
The dips, always deep potholes.
Never a molehill,
Always Everest.
Still, she pressed on
She cried and raged and burned
She bent in two but never broke.
No wispy pinks or baby blues for her.
Queenly purple, sizzling red, stygian black.
She was a woman of exotic beauty
Who never knew how beautiful she was
She was a woman well loved
Who never knew how well loved she was.
The author of six nonfiction books and software for handwriting psychology, she has published eight in the Forensic Handwriting Mysteries series, and two Beyond the Veil Mysteries.
The mother of a tattoo artist and a former rock star, Sheila lives in Ventura, California. She frequently appears in the media when handwriting is in the news.
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