Golden Shovel

In a cynical realm where truth is tainted in black, rises she, amidst whirling vortexes veiling reveries where she walks. Yet society thrums thick skinned lies, whilst morning moon sighs in- silence, seeing sunrise through eyes that mirror golden beauty. Her persona resembles firm perennial petals like, maternal warriors waltzing through wistful winds, singing the, song of survival in loneliness through every forlorn night. She's bestowed with selfless angels thawing wicked webs of, time, freezing the rainbows hidden behind cloudless, cerulean wrapped in balmy breeze blowing along cashmere climes. She is her own sorceress with an invisible ring and silver spells, her unbreakable spirit shines like starry amulets of faith, sparkling across cold midnight skies. She still composes calm symphonies in elegance and, patience, whilst ignorant tongues concoct storms amongst all, evil that reeks within a community that's- ready to place names, find fault in words within the chorus of life, best, written for the unheard voices ostracized, by merciless tunes of, the past, where freedom fighters were left alone in the dark. But she sprouts, like a sunflower growing in the cracks of emptiness and, like an untamable warrior, she serves hope and love, that beams so bright. “She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and bright  Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty”