Transfigured

I used to love marble,
a white beauty as such,
the smoothest cold touch,
a steady one that could crumble.

As much as what this poet hand could carve
in the smallest detail
and of a heart so hard and pale
this heart of mine would starve.

None of this I ever minded
for that is how it works in love
until when I'd raise my eyes right above
only stone would be beholden.

19/02/2018