She talked like a poet or a prophet, with words that rhyme at a time when man began his disrupted plan to control everything and everyone. Under the sun.
She spoke of madness and freedom, of acceptance and equality with gleaming eyes that seemed like some breed of fruit dangling from a vein beyond the pearly gate. Such fate.
She was ‘Her’, the girl, the woman, the ‘She’ of every tale, the ultimate female who could only be dreamt about or imagined by those who seek her blessing. Confessing.
She smiled with grace, a smile that radiated bliss and joy to those around her, even though she felt thunder inside. She cried.
She’s been beat down by fate and what it represented, by society and their barbaric way of life. What strife.
She understood beauty’s just a word, happiness’ a noun and perfection had become too mainstream. It’s not a dream.
Beautiful, happy and prefect; for she’s a queen, a queen without a crown with a soul so pure, so true that’d wash down all the evil spirits that roam the land. Lend a hand.