My wig is my crown,
On top of my head, a symbol of royalty,
Identifying me as the Chosen Nation.
Its strands glisten like gems,
Each expertly arranged
To reflect my position
As a princess.
Gentle, tasteful, poised, respectable.
Perched on my head in perfect placement.
My wig is my helmet, my shield, my armor.
Surrounding my head, the sign of a fighter,
Protecting me in my G-dly mission.
When I step out of my house, onto the battlefield,
My wig is secure, covering me completely
With its protection.
Its strands, like radar, detect
And swish away the distractions
That would deter me from my mission
As a soldier.
Advising, focusing, fortifying, directing.
Surrounding my head in perfect placement.
My wig is my lens, my veil.
Inside my head, a symbol of holiness.
The mark of a prophetess,
Linked to the brain, seat of the Soul.
Filtering around me to allow the correct Light
To shine
To warm without burning.
Its strands glisten and descend,
Compressing the monumental data
I absorb and share.
Driving, evaluating, examining, bequeathing.
Fitted upon my head in perfect placement.
