Monday, January 21, 2002
Some days it would seem to be better
to have been born of granite and have a heart forged of iron
than to bear in blood the wounds from love.
For they look at me with distant scorn
flaying and beating me with their silences and outbursts
not foe or stranger, but those whom I would draw most close.
Perhaps it is my countenance that decieves
the stoic expression that may seem unassailable
masks a heart that at times, is as fragile as any other.
My wounds groan and ache the same
for tears and blood have no solace in intentions
whether clutched in love or hatred, a sword still cuts.
In its wake, the heart cries out,
longing for the day that flesh would pass away
to endless sleep in the bosom of granite and iron.
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