A STONE HEART
I thought once; how you would behave with
My stone heart; if I ever bestowed upon you.
You would tend it with the puny benevolent
Love you have racing through your veins.
Or, simply you would just put it in a pot
And, put that pot on a pious blue flame
To make a potpourri of “stone soup.”
Thinking that might make out something
Of this weed growing among the salubrious crops.
Garnishing and seasoning were needed thereafter,
But the villagers were not fools like in the story.
They instead laughed at you and called you a moron.
Sensing this, you realized what a pest you were going
To make out of yourself enacting this abortive act.
Pragmatic as ever, you knew what to do next;
You picked it up within your fist and hurled it
Among all other stones; gigantic stones, pygmy stones.
Where it righteously belonged; stones among stones.
And who to blame?
“My stone heart.”
My heart is a stone which refuses to melt and flow.
© Copyright 2016 Shweta. All rights reserved.
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