She is her.
That ever present glint,
Nudging souls to the edge.
She dances across,
A dance of her own,
Her eyes happy,
Her face confident,
Her movements sure.

She is her.
They can see it.
She's the portrait,
They seek to embody;
The empress,
They will to overthrow.

But she is a slim screen,
An articulate work of art,
Meticulously crafted to deceive.
She wanders,
She runs,
It's an escape from herself,
The very object of desire. 

Her delicate skin glows,
The gruesome claws tucked in neatly,
A constant like always.
But she smiles.
Smiles like it's all fun and games.
And maybe it is.