In a room where light does dance and play, A creature of elegance holds the chaos at bay. With fur as soft as the silken thread, And a gown that trails where the courtiers tread.

Her gaze is fixed, a noble stare, Upon a world both rich and rare. She wears a crown not made for men, In a tale that’s spun from a baroque pen.

The chandeliers, with crystals clear, Cast shadows that to her appear. Like figures from a masquerade, Where light and dark are both arrayed.

Her pose is grace, her spirit keen, In this curious in-between. Where time itself has seemed to pause, In her presence, one mustn't gloss.

For here she stands, both bold and grand, A whimsical ruler of a sunlit land. With elegance she does compose, A silent sonnet, free of prose.

Chaos sleeps in every corner, unseen, Beneath the tranquil, regal sheen. Yet in her eyes, a spark does flicker, A hint of mirth, that's even quicker.

In this hall of time’s own making, Her courtly pose is not for taking. She reigns with poise in s