Women dig for diamonds in coal,
hoping these lumps of pyrolyzed men
will keep their carbon promise.
Accepting their sedimentary excuses
while the heat smoulders beneath,
while the revised lines in love letters
seem shiny and new.
But this old story – written on paper-chains –
has been well-read and dog-eared,
and its links ignite easily in fire.
The real thing’s bound in gold, ladies.
Synthetic tricksters will sparkle like pyrite,
dazzling eyes, igniting hearts with desire.
Or glow like amber, which only serves
to preserve a heart that’s been burnt
by the blazing postscript.
Women dig for truth in the ashes,
carry this shining jewel in their crow’s feet
as they spread their wings to fly,
discard the embers in empty nests,
and set the whole place aflame.
LMC