Were I to admit my faults, my love,
would you secure the line that pulls us abreast
by speaking true that I do have them?
I will never say that I am an image hard to break,
or that my will does not lead to some death
or another.
Nor will I ask that you deceive me with a pretty ribbon,
wrapped around my body, head to heel.
I am a fresh conceived child of the potter, no image hard to break,
but glass easy to make into dust. Clay easy to unbake.
Don't let me sleep, unanswering for the mistakes I have sung into sword,
for I might fall upon them and break.
As I have said before, its possible.
No image hard to--
I am not faultless, dear one. Never that.
I break of my own accord.
This slippery world requires a crutch
I simply do not own.
But you have encouragement enough
for us to off and find me some feet together...
...make me an image hard to break together.