The Heart

 

 

The hand is a resigned thing,

a coward and blind thing.

Like glances in passing,

its epitaph always release.

 

The mind too is a flawed thing,

a dry, undivining thing.

Like an abandoned well,

only the bottom responds.

 

And the soul is a peregrine thing,

a pure but unprized thing.

Like a teabox figurine,

there's too much of this clay.

 

But the heart is a fine thing,

a finely designed thing.

Like a Japanese saw,

it cuts on the pull.

Shadow Throne