It could have been simple, burning incense to the sacred
but they’re transient offerings, a perfumed flower.
It could have been bright and whole and hard and true;
you she would have accepted, had you allowed her.
She was led by a golden chain.
It was a delicate ideal, the sculpted heart;
too arduous an ordeal to hang from something so fine.
It fell apart.
A locket is a hollow thing.