Pristine Woman

A knob turn, slight creak,

Left to wonder what his little hands can do,

Why he should only be so lucky as to knock upon her door,

Walk with her inside—

Frame strong, delicateness hanging, one of those peaceful wreaths, a welcoming floor mat, inviting—

The golden ratio of strength to fearful beauty, unsure surety, deliberate, polished, refined,

A child’s heart in search of adulthood love of life and self, from within the daily tussle, the Transgressions of others messing with her mind, the grind and weight of the world pressing,

Her fortitude prevailing

Her soul wailing,

His wonderment waiting

In the wings,

On the wings

Of angels,

She,

Pristine woman,

Beaten, broken down by darkened forces passing through,

Perceptible,

To heaven and

Hell,

Fell down with the rise of heated flame

Torch in the wrong hand,

Disbandment in her breast,

Cleaving conviction in the still beating part of her chest

She chose to walk away—

So has stayed with her, this fiery truth,

This devilish risk,

This wishy-washy whisk,

Turmoil and

Blood boil

At her every turn—that if tempted, men will burn bonfires to combat

The flickering candle of her hopeful goodness,

That which stands to consume,

Pristine woman,

Built back up again,

Renewed and true to her as she is,

As it should be.