She formed from cosmic dust.

A ball of hollow gas with a dash of wonderment and arrogance.

She has long flat feet that used to dance to the heartbeats of drums

Her thighs are like logs

Thick and sturdy

Marked with the lines of growth and extension. Stripes like a tiger that ride to her saddle: plump and firm 

These trunks walk grungy New York blocks

And they run crowded Manhattan streets

They connect to her womb that may someday house the sweetest fruit in 9 months she will meet

The button of her belly is her fourth eye

Through this fourth eye emits signals of the perfect mates or dates and when to wait 

So it seems this eye has been blocked by eargness or naiveness or the simple fabrics of shirts

She has been hurt before.

A few times. 

Every time

She does not possess the hips or seats for youths as her ancestral lineage suggests 

But they sway & switch & dance & move

They glide & move to every bass filled groove. 

Its the rhythm & riddim of the congos intertwined in her veins 

Although she possess an English name

Her shoulders are broad & upright like a ligen filled tree

Shes square with a round face and skin of embellished gold that draped the Ethopians and dangled from the Egyptians

Her eyes are ancient but sad all at once. There are images with sorrows & joys behind her eyelids & every time she blinks she hopes to reset them

Hair covers every inch of her like a regal lionness 

But it is her crown that is most impressive. 

Her crown has been processed, burnt, ridculed, flipped, cut, bound, hidden, and dyed 

Through all of the trauma her crown is mystic & mysterious & dark as her eyes.

She wears antennae that communicates with the Most High.

A hairstyle it may seem but you are in the presence of a queen 

On a quest to her Queendom 

Liberation is of the utmost importance 

She will be free

I am sure of this because this literary beauty happens to be me.