The thing about her is that she's too beautiful to be spun into metaphors, and yet the poets try.
She's royalty and elegance.
She's made of stardust and galaxies.
She's freedom, She's honesty.
She's not the clichéd red rose, but is a bouquet of rare orchids.
She's mystery and her eyes are wildly magical.
Her rage is a hurricane but she is as calm as the ocean.
She's carved from iron and she has felt the blazing sun.
She's an earthquake of miracles.
She's raw power.
She's art.
She defines imperfection in the perfect way possible.
She's all these metaphors in the body of a seventeen year old.
Now do you want the poets to stop?