Our cheek, the candle’s favorite place to come. Our hair where waters congregate to pray. Our teeth the angels wait to gaze upon in rare phenomenons our smiles stay. We’re taxed despite this miracle design. Where once a princess laughed, a tour guide’s there as cameras light the spiral stairs she climbed. In photographs her ghost almost appears. Who taxed a princess? Charging her to live? The morning blossoms on thy face for free, and still the government demands you give- -but mornings also bronzed a princess cheek. Deserving freedom, find that bygone wick, and never let them make you pay to live.
