My Princess

She sits at my knee,
donning colors of gold, ash, and sepia
or lies warm at my side;
precious to me, her devotion, her idea.
But fussy and feisty,
like fireworks, in a way;
gorgeous but explosive,
she's lit most the day.
Petite is her frame,
grand, her presence,
her fury is a disguise;
vulnerability, her essence.
Her eyes are lined in black,
like smears of charcoal,
reminiscent of some beautiful queen
who died long ago.
Through those dark lines,
light eyes beg forgiveness,
as she poses for me;
a portrait of submissiveness.