Your vanity is unequal, your voice mismatched. Twisted metal and sculpted wood breed your chords, spawning an army of ethereal attendants. Your children serve you beyond doubt, braiding their hair together as you pull at the strands.
Your power is staggering, capable of reducing the clouds to tears and the faeries to madness. All pay homage to you and your gilded cup, begging for the chance to sip your sunset wine.
You are brilliant and bold, your branches sewn in seams of gold, dripping with green sugar and blue salt. A pool of silver laps at your ankles, trailing feelings of melancholy. Oh how it feels to be you, treasured music! Humans languish under your jeweled gaze and offer their hearts to your pale lips. Devour me! Your hands trace along a mountain’s cheekbone and the wing of a fledgling. Sketch me!
such brazen pride,
from a mumbling thing.