In my hands,

Tired and worn,

Cracked and bleeding,

I hold my Love Stone,

No longer fresh, and young,

Now beaten, weathered, and weak,

I watch it struggle to beat,

Wanting to to stop,

But beating away,

Slowly it changes,

Becoming cool to the touch,

Steaming in sun,

Frosting, bit by bit,

Becoming pale, and white,

Cracking, splitting, and drying,

Until only ice remains,

But even that is not enough,

It beats ever still,

The ice now shifts,

Slowly at first,

No longer cool, or cold,

But hard, rough to the touch,

Bit by bit, turning gray,

The hardness spreading outward, and inward,

Until only the stone remains,

Stark, and barren,

Heavy, and unwelcome,

But it beats ever still,

Only now,

It can no longer feels it's own beating,

No longer revel in the sensation,

Bask in the joy of the beat,

It is only routine,

Doing what it was it made to do,

Beat, beat, beat,

I place the stone in my pocket,

And look into the sky,

One day, the stone will shatter,

The ice will melt,

And the beat will sing,

But for now,

My Love Stone keeps beating away...