Solid as they come, but lest we forget.

Liquid from the start, time begins its work.

So inept, so naive.

Mixing and sloshing around.

The heavy concoction we know best.

Day and night, the clock turns round.

Sitting still, the heart is born.

“Magnificent!”, they all applaud.

The monument only awaits recognition and acceptance.

And then they leave, no need to stay.

Forever the heart will be. For it is, concrete.

The weather speaks, and the heart sits still.

Disasters fall, and the heart remains intact.

Chips ambient the sides. Residue conforms.

The heart sits still. It has nothing to utter.

For it is concrete.

As much as it stands, it will never be loved.

As much as one paints, to cover in blood.

The concrete still stands.

And says nothing at all.

Alone, the wind gently comes, grazing the sides.

What the wind blows, the heart never replies.