A heart is a mountain made out of wood,
With roots that stretch
to the depths of the earth.
And we hate and we fear
that we'll ever get burned,
As our heart stands,
waiting its turn. Waiting its test,
as an infinite fuel
awaits its birth.
It will burn forever and never run out.
The thing in my nature that makes me your man,
and leaves me no doubt,
is every and all of the things
That I am.
and it will not learn
But it will not learn.
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years. Try the RANDOM button to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.
*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.