True princesses never complain
about the price of spilt champagne
for the contents of her chalice
overflow floors of her palace.
Each place she sits becomes a throne,
a majesty unto her own.
Her hair flows in rivers like how Earth’s veins run;
Each twinkle in her eyes, a sun;
Open-armed flowers greet her light’s rule.
Each stone she touches is a rare jewel.
Each time she bathes, healing springs brew
from the sheer heat of her aura.
Steam, rising into distant blue,
dispells the hells of Pandora.
No matter how whole or faulted,
princesses remain exalted
even when lying on the floor
drunk off of boxed pinot noir.