This will not be unraveled.
Perfection exists,
Knowable for a finite time.
Yet you do not wish to know us.
Instead you ask us
To split down the middle,
To set ourself aside
And so kill us.

You see a crown and a woman.
Our old components, as
Gold and jewels and
Riches to be seized,
Separated for your profit.
We are no longer a crown and a woman.
We are Art, Crowned.
We are Perfection.

We refuse to be restrained
By ease. Comfort. Fear.
We instead embrace ourselves
And what we might do,
Whole and not fractured,
A being who has never been
And may not be for long.
Mortality's plight, honed.

Those who know Art
Know what we seek.
We are tempered by
Wisdom of ages past
And emboldened by the
Voice of a Generation.
We will either see our children excel
Or smother this mistake in the crib.

We remain,
Art,

Perfection

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Lupar, in the year 875 AF.