She batters around the place with color, light and music seeping through the air-tight windows and bolted door.
Each day presents a body to be painted and dressed for the flurry of moods that she rides upon.
Her voice out paces the singer in the speaker, her sound bouncing through the place.
The cordials of potions stream all over her skin and are thrown like a spray of rain upon the blowing conditioned air.
Her days are happily spent decorating Christmas.
Some artists need recognition-money-critiques, but not this goddess.
When she does emerge from her containment, she struts her stuff all around the sitty sidewalks.
And she beams with each pair of eyes who worship at the painted toes of her beauty.
*Reference to Tennyson’s Lady of Shallot
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