I was just rock, potential pure

Began my days, though quite unsure

To rid me of what I abhor

A sculptor's task my own.

It took some time to chip away

The marble of the hardened days

The pebbles fallen in array

Lain about my throne.

My chisel’s point grew soft and dull

Lab’rous years come to a lull

Clear the sculptor’s trials were null

With mine and mine alone.

So in flew Hate disguised as Trust

And promised to complete the bust

A hidden smile, mischievous

Veiled a face well-known.

Quickly how the work began

To shape the stone to something grand

There beneath the Trusted hand

Where art is born of stone. 

And then, one day, though sworn it not

The chisel slipped and cracked a spot

But I forgave and never thought

The act was more than lone. 

But crack again came, ceaselessy

Tore through stone that made up me

And unapoligetically

Broke each and every bone.

And so I sat, a crumbled heap

Wondered how that Hate could sleep

And know they left me fractured deep

With reason left unknown. 

Broken stone can be pieced back

But always there will be the crack

And so I sit behind a plaque

"The One Who Hate Dethroned".

Centuries have passed since then

But I hesitate time again

To start to see Trust in a friend

For fear Hate's deeply sown.