I write bad poetry on my lunch break.

When a heart burns white-hot like tempered steel
And reflects a sheen that transcends skin like layers of dust,
The delicate pain that rumbles like fireworks exploding in the chest,
Embers flying through the eyes and spilling over,
Smoke the scent of lilac trickling out the mouth,
It is enough to light the nighttime with sheer love.

But what of the times when love cannot weld itself to common sense?
The temperance of steel still burning in its stubborness
While the chill of doubt wraps icy crystals in any crevice it can,
What then?