She, whose fair praises have been sung
while thoughtless insults blithely flung,
for whom odes proud and gestures grand
in place of care and nurture stand,
not fused or molded by design
yet part of nature’s perfect rhyme –
and we, blind mortals that we are,
pay no heed, but vain, worship stars.
This started as a fan poem but became a bit of a critique-in-rhyme. For day 3 of NaPoWriMo.