My heart can't be bought with diamonds that sparkle like powdery snowflakes in the warm afternoon sunlight.
She can’t be tamed or fooled by sweet promises of forever
Or seduced by honey-dipped indie flicks with predictable sweet little happy endings.
Or caged by the confining expectations of how you think love should be.
My heart is not for sale.
She's not interested in illusions of safety.
She's interested in flying to freedom and dipping her toes in the gushing waters of truth.
And she only answers to one thing---
The wild calls of the whipping Western wind.
Smoky whispers of thick fog flirting with naked treetops.
The frantic shouting of other hearts who are, too, fumbling towards truth.
My heart can't be bought.
Or seduced into a placated ownership
She is not to be owned by anyone
Not even me.
My heart answers to truth
To the wild calls of Western winds.
She is not for sale
And she never will be.
Her wings are too big, her wisdom too soft, her rhythmic beats too goddamn electric---
To ever belong
To any man.
My heart only answers the wild calls of the Western wind.