Heart

Her heart of stone, coldly chiselled

suffers not your selfish grip.

Your hands no purchase take

upon its walls, but blood

from your hands it draws.

Her heart, a flower, each petal wrought from rocky ore

does not suffer its stem to break

under wind nor thunderous rain.

Her heart a heavy shield of granite

carved til drops of rosy blood

dropped from hers and no-one else's hand

bids but few of worth to carry

but if to their chest they are bid to raise it

from all rage and hellfire

they shall be spared.

Her heart, a stone, scrapes rough with every beat

but brings her no pain.

Though for softly-beating, gentle hearts you yearn

and for stone you have only disdain

I find beauty only in the cold, hard touch

and I say only this to you;

run across the countenance of David your gaze

and with clear conscience come to me

and tell me stone cannot be beautiful.