Transitory Tiara

A crown, not always metal, not always bright, sometimes, a halo of sweat-soaked hair, earned beneath a scorching sun, a laborer's quiet triumph. Sometimes, the delicate curve of a newborn's skull, a fragile promise, a universe unfolding, a reign just begun. A crown, the silver dusting of wisdom, etched in lines, a cartographer of lived experience, a silent testament to battles won and lost. The artist's brow, furrowed in creation's fire, a circlet of inspiration, a burning vision, a kingdom born of pigment and shadow. A crown, the weight of responsibility, unseen, unfelt, a parent's weary smile, a shield against the storm, a silent, enduring sovereignty. The survivor's gaze, clear and unbroken, a thorny wreath of resilience, a hard-won victory, a testament to the spirit's unyielding strength. A crown, not always coveted, not always visible, but a mark of bearing, a sign of what is held dear, a fleeting recognition, a quiet dignity, a temporary, or eternal, burden, or grace. ©bfa032525