IronLace

I am cleaved by desire,
split down the middle by need,
I watch myself spill out onto the floor,
my heart beating rapidly,
it is all I can do to keep my grip upon it,
my only option to be dragged behind,
like a kite it flies, and I dangle
feeling as a useless string, no longer grounded,
and yet so terrifyingly free.

You sit and spin at the potters wheel,
I know what all sculptors say,
it is not you who creates, but only listens,
from the clay your fingers obey
the commands which are communicated
through internal vibrations,
you release what was always
awaiting imprisoned within.

And so it was between us,
like rare ore buried into the farthest depths of the mountain,
waiting to be discovered
you painstakingly, devoutly,
brought to the surface,
polished off,
tumbled between your fingers,
what has always been, quietly anticipating
your arrival, for only you would know
how to unlock all the concealed chambers
which have resisted many
attempted invasions.

There have been the ones
who believed they could barricade through,
smash the locks, seize the fortress,
break their way inside upon pure
strength alone, only to find
their swords snapped in half,
battering rams splintered into slivers,
axes split from the shaft,
for I am a tower impenetrable
by sheer force alone.

And there are those who have come
too soft, and believed they could
negotiate their way in upon words
and good intentions alone,
they where timid and weary
and would beg and plead,
expecting me to freely,
upon their own yearnings alone,
allow them to cross through the barriers,
but they where undependable,
for how can they defend
what they are incapable
of infiltrating upon strength
of will alone.

Some believed I could be so easily
deceived, and attempted to steal away
the keys when they thought I was looking
the other way, they fancied themselves
pick-locks and only made fools of themselves
thinking I could be won over
by paltry parlor tricks,
games of hand and eye,
at this I could only scoff,
they where amusing for awhile,
but grew wearisome the more desperate
they became.

But you who are craftsman,
tiller of the earth, battleworn soldier,
yet with the ability to make music
which makes even the birds weep,
understood the importance of approaching
with perfect balance and insufferable patience,
with all the hunters skill you could wait
for hours on end, while never giving up ground,
you didn’t flinch at claiming what you sought,
but never forgot that the rules where all mine,
and you amused yourself pretending
to break them.