A sorcerer can’t cry? That’s just a myth
perpetuated by his enemies
to minimize his poise and expertise.
Part alchemist, part priest, part silversmith,
part warrior, part whomever he is with—
each role’s a mask to cover his disease
of icy tears that under moonlight freeze
to stone as living as his monolith.
You wouldn’t know. His teardrops only heal
the scars of those who know him, who believe
in what it takes a heart like his to break
enough to bleed his dreams, enough to ache
in dripping sweat, enough to truly grieve
as if his joy and sorrow made love real.