The crimson top spins no more.
It has burned out,
It cracks at the touch of a finger.
Once it spun on the daily,
whirling incessantly,
spraying loose a rain of rubies.
It is poorly guarded.
The bones that grow sick to guard it
ache only for the briefest massage.
Either a storm or some battle horn
will eventually snap its prison,
and they'll muscle through the walls,
ripping the top from its cradle—
and they'll behold it
and they'll poke it
and they'll shake it
and they'll break it.
"Lazy architect," they'll mutter,
and ravage for another.
Oh, but if only they were you.
The top only spins
when you want it to.
No comments:
Post a Comment