Apotheosis

A tender heart is only fit for pain;
The world thinks gentle things invite a prick.
One's love too freely given bids disdain;
A treasure needs a box both hard and thick.

Make safe your heart; grow rings on rings of wood
While fields of garish flowers die below.
The hand that picks them soon forgets they stood,
But you'll remain—a skeleton of snow.

Or slough off growth entirely; be the man
That Nature strives to shape, but always fails.
Become a god to rule the terrene span—
A haughty statue that no life assails.

But know, though flesh is prone to bleed and peel,
A rock, once duly scathed, can never heal.