Vulcan


Frightening is his face;
Physical beauty leaves not a trace,

And yet in his eyes,
truth has no disguise.

His soul is very tender;
Unusual is its surender

To all he is deprived of,
As when any shows him love.

For him love was sacred,
But he knew only hatred.

All, even men, scorned him;
His sorrow filled to the brim.

Through his hands he found greatness,
As he was able to express

The imagination of the truly great,
Which enabled him to promulgate

His inner emotions to a cruel world
As they were all simultaneously hurled

Back at him, as if he were stoned
By the very people whose trust he had once owned.

Even now, with the love of another,
That emotion still acts like a hot dagger,

And with the cold of the night surrounding him still,
The hole inside of him never does fill.