She’s a shadow that hides behind the sun.
A trickster, joker, a muse
(But not a nun).
To speak to her is to peruse
A library in disarray,
In an elegant chaos that spreads
Like wildflowers and promiscuity in May.
She’s the sound of brass horns, and the whirring in heads.
Everything about her is a whimsy,
She moves like happiness.
Her friendship is as flimsy
As platinum (which is worth far less).
Her eyes are the grey-blue of the welcome storm
And she is beautiful in the same way.
She’s shifting and changing, with no true form.
She’s reckless, and fey.
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