One-ninth of a whole

Something in her heart
I cannot win;
locked away, rarely glimpsed.
I bear this like a veteran’s wound,
an ache, until I ache no more,
when glory and remembrance are dust.

She labours, unaware
of the embodiment,
kernel, that she carries in her soul;
safe beneath her layers,
the armour and the swords
that weary her from morning until night.

Perfect stellar fragment
of inestimable age
shines green through molten eyes;
echoes in her words, her ways,
but falls, dead,
lifeless on the GRANITE and the STEEL.

O Muse, I feel your draw.
I know no peace, no silence.
Through my deafened ears
I hear your words. Never cease
for, though you can’t be mine,
my heart lies always at your feet.

Your servant.