Iron Hearts
A life surrounded by our passions,
leaves us less and less delight,
as we blindly follow fashions,
which draw breath for every bite.
In the sinless, faded moonbeams,
every path looks much the same.
And the crookedly stitched inseams
spare the needle of all blame.
Much of what in twilight’s hidden,
adorns the secret face beneath.
The one that surfaces unbidden,
each and every time we seethe.
We’ve seen too much, of what’s distorted,
too little of what’s pure.
And though we all have wonders courted,
their wounds we’d never truly cure.
For pain’s become addictive
to those who’ve felt his edge.
And flight is now instinctive,
makes for quite the crowded ledge.
All have learned surrender
in love, in life or thought
and all the hearts born tender,
are now of iron-wrought.
