She Fixed Her Crown

She stood in silence,

battle-worn,

With tangled hair and edges torn,

A storm behind,

the skies grown black,

The weight of all upon her back.

She'd walked through fire,

stood in rain,

Held in her breath,

endured the pain,

Each scar a story,

etched and deep,

Of dreams she'd lost and nights no sleep.

Her crown lay tilted,

cracked and bent,

From wars she fought,

from strength she spent.

The world had laughed when she fell down,

But still

she rose to fix her crown.

Not one of gold or jeweled display,

But forged from grit in shadowed grey.

It wasn't dainty,

light,

or small,

It bore the proof she'd survived it all.

She found a mirror,

not for pride,

But just to look her in the eye.

No makeup smile,

no false pretense

Just raw,

unfiltered consequence.

She lifted hands,

still scraped and red,

And straightened what adorned her head.

A gesture simple,

yet profound:

She didn’t wait to be crowned.

She stood alone,

but stood so tall,

No longer fearing how she'd fall.

She'd learned that queens aren’t always born,

But shaped through every bruise and thorn.

She fixed her crown and faced the day,

Not seeking praise or grand array.

For in her chest her power beat

A rhythm fierce, composed, complete.

The world would test her,

sure enough,

But now she knew she was enough.

And if she stumbled,

lost her way,

She’d fix her crown again

each day.