Brass Knuckles and Paper Planes

Shoulders,
as slender and lithe as the sunlight that graces them,
stand,
strong and broad,
yet as delicate as sand,
moving in everpresent motion
and vigor.
Her unkempt hair gleams,
golden rays piercing its confines,
beautiful and powerful,
as it adorns her head like a crown,
and rests itself upon the length of her neck.
Her pose is stark,
and rigid,
her body screaming her emotions tenfold,
and launching it's fire miles ahead,
as she would do the same,
gladly swinging fist and fury,
bone and blood,
and standing tall and vindicated,
against all who would dare oppose her
and doubt her will to survive.
She looks out to the world,
the land beyond her glass prison,
and revels in the wonder of it all,
and though she is moved,
she is not impressed,
nor is she softened.
Her guard is still as solid,
and justified,
as the day she surrounded herself with it,
and locked her pain away,
behind walls of steel and stone,
and though she'd deny it,
somewhere deep within her rests a horizon,
one littered with an army of paper planes,
soaring through the evening sky
a barrage of hopes and dreams in tow,
long forgotten,
and left out in the rain,
to die,
or succumb to evils far greater.
She's a warrior,
with thousands at her back,
as she strolls right along,
no fear in her arsenal,
and no hesitation in her actions,
throwing her mighty voice about,
with rage upon her eyes,
brass knuckles at hand,
and paper planes overhead.