Like ashes in a grate they lie;
The dying hearts of men.
Battered, bruised, twisted, burned,
Extinguished remnants that failed to learn
That sure and steady as the beat
The path it treads is pure deceit.
For one desire burns deep and true,
Often hidden but always new,
To place itself above all else
With purposed cunning and utmost stealth.
Feigned emotions, subtle ways,
To be lord of all that it surveys.
Alas, the cost is always great,
Bitterness, anger, envy, hate.
For soon by these alone it’s led,
Gnarled and poisoned, loveless, dead.
Until forsaken it stands alone,
An empty, lifeless, tragic stone.
Deep afire the cracks