This goddess wears a dress, so full of plumage it reeks.
She wears a dress so torn it’s beautifully abstract, her people told her.
Her hair too long to be brushed,
It runs down the road because it feels rushed.
Her eyes the color of pond algae,
Her people tell her their diminished emeralds.
Is it her sight or theirs that is wrong?
Could they both be right in spite?
Speaking by Paper 