Baby Lord

She wears her spark like a fox in the dark.

She comes in a cloak of allure.

She’s the queen of her dreams, and her lunacy gleams.

The light of delight’s in her purr.

She’s cut from the night, and the stars are her sight.

She travels in madness and mist.

She’s a shot in the sky that brings showers of rye.

Her smile leaves her mouth in a twist.

Her wish is the flame that her courtesies claim.

It turns in capricious intent.

Her own hope is the heat that erupts from her feet.

It burns with a saccharine scent.

Her look is a force of celestial source.

Her magic is dire and bright.

She’s a witch of the wild and a singular child.

Her wit is her power and might.

She shivers in dance and delirious trance.

The art of her heartbeat is true.

She’s an honest empuse, and she moves like a muse.

The shriek of the wind is her clue.

She’s strange, but her craze can be wise in its ways.

She raves in the manner of time.

She behaves with a bent that delusions invent.

She carries a sweet kind of clime.

Her sorcerous breath may be sanity’s death.

Her chaos perceives no domain.

Though the realm of her rule is the view of a fool,

None sully her immanent reign.

The thread of her thought makes a masterful knot.

Unbound are the sounds of her mind.

She’s the form of the dread that proceeds from her head.

She’s the reason that savagery finds.