Columns and alabaster stairs
The crowd emerges to praise the king
A box containing crowning glory
To be worn by only him
Nothing for the woman to adorn
Not even a flower for her hair
How can this be?
Is her worthiness reflected?
Authority and ritual of the norm
All is left are ruins found
Each piece dissolves within her hand
Entropy of the form revealing formless once again
Illusions of others have no power
She creates the life that she has now