Jinna with the silver
Streaked black hair
Bronzed her punk boots
The day they wore out
Holes in soles
Cracked leather creases
Took a beating from
Gravel and concrete
Tar speckled
Reckless dance partners
Spilled beer
Caved to sensible shoes,
Utilitarian life,
Practical soul
Still aching for the
Painful pointed toes
That made her kick and scream
Ill fit, inducing a fight
Against any injustice
Now a prop against
A door held partially open
To keep the
Comfortable fit
From forgetting the silver tress
That Jinna still proudly wears
Into justice halls
With her black robe
Now wielding a gavel
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