De rigeur

At romp with her brazen skirt,
She brandished to a household tune.
Whilst chortling among the chromatic,
She ripens into a cloying hue.

What an iridescent moth she was,
In her slightly hackneyed wings;
As she flutters whimsically beyond
The deceit of her mundane garden.

In her pious flight of avarice,
She felt bereft of tactile fervor;
A sudden clank of a raucous chime
Adumbrated a frightful downfall.

Swayed by the strident influence
Of an amusingly cunning alternate,
She fluctuated, sometimes with cadence
Unleashing her feral psyche.

She lingers in baffle of a new compulsion,
Yet serendipity, to her, became irascible;
To allay her intrepid profound needs,
She was strained to befit an ignoble.

The destitute weed lost control
Among the grass of her disparate prairie;
She was left jaded and world-weary,
As she tries to trod away the gore.

Her kismet had been acrid;
She was plundered of her collusion.
She gyrated in a stifle shift;
Frayed and stolid, she laid subdued.

Alas, still beleaguered by the toll
Of an ever-appalling conviction,
She, as though awfully resilient,
Stood torpidly, quite bemused.