soar through the soul-searching hammer and ping

poor wounded heart, so
much pain, so many scars
mistakes and damage have a way of piling
up, after all
no way to pare off the bruising, the
places where the muscle has atrophied, grown
rigid and stiff and drawn
dysfunction setting in, it always does
so gather gauze from the supply kit, clean
needles and silken thread
it won't hurt any worse for bandaging, and
red looks so pretty against white

protect it, layer by layer, a stitch here, a
stitch there--it will take time
for the ribcage to settle, after all, and
there's always dust in the air here--
the rest will take time, but
it's time that must be taken. the
gates collapsed some while back, layers of
the surrounding walls have caved in as well, stones
scattered underfoot like
bones to twist ankles in the tall grass.

I'll need to sweep first, then set to work
raise the fortifications again
soon there will be the silver ring, the
song of tools on steel
replacement heartbeat in the chill grey air
rivet by rivet, hand-beaten armor, curved by
will and intent. likely I'll
have to search for scraps, and it
will grow like all my other projects: in
steel and wool and copper, brass
wire and silk, strung beads, bits
of driftwood and seashell, all
wrapped in gauze for structure, adding
to the whole. my heart will beat
to the sound of the hammer blows, until
it's strong enough again to beat on its own

this time
the gates won't
stand open.