Her lips are red, the best color to speak for a Mother.
She has bitten her tongue, the red isn't lipstick, it's blood.
Beautiful in its passion, manic without ration, and wild.
Colors like pink and brown are too mild.
Her armor is her skin, sheerness striking fear, because fabric is just an accessory to her battle.
You heard her delicate voice sing, the scream of a womans war cry.
You call her perverse for her natural elegance.
Your anger is irrelevant, her independence the insult, but she is beyond repression.
Mother, lover, absolute in the boardroom or under bed covers.
A War Goddess, shameless, and shaped beyond your censure.