The God of Stereotypes

She descends from the heavens,
grimy train steps daintily trod
by sensible shoes.

An argyle sweater and trendy glasses:
her distinct decorations of self.
A fair trade bag and half eaten sushi,
her ornaments are well crafted,
instinctively placed.

Worn Dostoevsky in hand,
us mortals can merely murmur,
she can only be the stereotypical.

Yet, as she is a god,
my pen details her being
and the final result omits
the only important aspect:
her person.

a/n: This is the first poem I've actually managed to finish in a long time. It isn't perfect but it wasn't modelled on a perfect person. I like to think I could improve this poem, if not its inspiration.