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