a mystic queen of clouds
stirring her golden mixing ***.
arms reaching up in crowds,
heads and legs getting caught.
she fully douses the creatures
in the prismatic solutions,
giving them distinct features
and eccentric attributions.
one by one they climb the ladle,
making neat rows of eight
up on the big smokey table.
her tiny whispers seal their fate.
making hexes, casting spells.
her eyes satisfied yet sharp.
off you go! she gracefully yells
as her novice sounds the harp.
wings of glass burst out their backs.
the creatures scared of its source
yet they mindlessly grab an axe
their monarch has her faithful force.