1005

I would not think to cut my heart from Wood
The cover of boys and birds.
Able to give and bend and age and groan,
Adaptable to the ravages of wind and rain,
But weak to fire-
To be swallowed in an instant
By the slightest kindling
Left only as dull ache and biting smoke
Losing form and soul alike-
And worse to be at once a ghost
Having lived but been consumed.

I would not think to carve my heart from Stone,
The seat of kings and queens.
Able to withstand but the hottest fire,
Stalwart long (but not forever)
Against the hardest rain,
Taken from the deep base of the mountain
or the summit that scratches the sky,
Either way sacrificing
Purpose for flawed form-
And worse to be broken, shattered
By the tiniest pebble tossed in the wind.

I would not think to cleave my heart from Iron,
The ribbing of cities and men.
Able to bear the weight of the mountain,
Tempered by the purging fire,
Bending in time with the wind
Ignorant of its attempts-
Weak however to rain
which may rust,
A corruption of form-
And worse to then collapse, tearing down
The rest of this delicate structure.

I would so think to cast my heart from Steel
The skin of soldiers and sky,
Being desirous as I am
Of strength in bending.
Unscorched by your eyes
Unmoved by your voice
Dry to your tears-
Thereby shirking your elements
Which burn and break and rust lesser earths.

But this being the worst
Because I could be safe for ages-
Strong
Cold
And wishing you would return
To somehow destroy my perfect form.