I am not the sort of steel
they sing about:
titanium that travails,
talks in the tongue of tactics,
thrashed against trammel
and touch alike.
I am the softest loss you'll suffer,
the pained gentle gift of grace
under pressure, pressed prostrate
against vehemence -- shrinking,
smiling wide in the wake of war cries.
Striking snide with a kiss, I'm
coiled poise between cracked
cupped hands, intimately indifferent.
Your blunt edges bid me bow
and
I bend where you'd break.
©sweepingly
S