Soliloquy 3

Should I, if not given a heart of my own,
make to steal one, soft and new, from another?
It would be such a theft as to brand me a devil
but I would myself be punished by the act.
The heart, once taken, would beat no more
in that innocent breast.
It would give no fuel to the anguished fires,
the loss would go unmourned. Yet I would have transplanted
not only the engine of love.
But also, unwillingly, the very voice of conscience
and weight of guilt.
Thrust then to feeling the very worst touch of love
would I repent my action and weep?
Or would I, enduring like the weathered stone,
stand tall and feel the hurt forgotten?