Her heart is like obsidian:
It's chipped away and wearing thin,
And black, though still it lets light in,
its edge grows never duller.
And mine, a page on which I write,
the names of those for whom I'd fight,
I've written them --black ink on white,
but the page grows ever fuller.
She noticed me, and saw the list
reflected in that black glass mist,
across the page that blade it hissed,
its cutting edge withstanding.
And when it ceased, the page did bear,
the names for whom I truly care,
With one more name along the tear,
In bright and vibrant color.