I had it right here
on my sleeve, by a string.
You'd know if you saw it, an odd, ornate thing.

As tough as old leather,
so fragile as glass
and warm to the touch of an elegant lass.

Perhaps you have heard it?
The gentlest chorus.
Wherein beats refrain of the soul's cryptic Morse.

It whispers deep secrets,
laughs out until red
and shatters with silence of deafening dread.

Now how could I lose it?
True poets' delight:
pure icon of love, said giver of life.

An object so needy—
such item I need.
I've nothing to bargain, no pity to plead.

Oh, wait just a minute!
T'was here all along.
I can see the charmed glow, you can hear it's lithe song.

Yes, sure I remember
this day cynics rue.
The gift of my heart I've entrusted to you.