Work Text:
Miraculous Spiral
Said the prodigy to the prominence:
Is it not tiresome toil,
Maintaining your every sunset curl?
Said the prominence unto he:
Nay, 'tis the nature of the beast
That is beauty, to thrive in the bite
Of hot metal, the splash of sea-spray.
Does the wind not scatter them?
Do they not grow damp and heavy
In sorrow and in rain?
For that, I have with me always
The iron from which they spring.
Although changed, I shall arise the same.
The same - you are - the same as ever,
Just as the spirals which you bear.
Miraculous spirals, no?
Miraculous they are not. I had not
Taken you for a fool, yet fool you are,
To speak of the fruit of toil
As mere miracle.
Then,
Is it not tiresome toil,
Maintaining your every sunset curl?