There is a knot made of conflict,
a ball twisted with emotions,
threads bound together, as if tricked
by their struggling, wrangling motions.
I’ve tried to untangle this knot,
to loosen and unwind its twine,
but it does not relax as ought—
it is a knot, this heart of mine.
The limestone-toothed tower looms tall,
its shadow stretching over all,
reflected in the crystal loch,
built to endure, from block to block,
a famed fortress of those before
who reigned in bygone times of yore,
yet, the kings have all gone to dust
and the tower stands, as it must
not because dead kings willed it so,
but because Nature did bestow
great power to her ancient stones—
power to outlast kingly bones.