The Heart of the Plaything Or, The Black That No One Claimed

The Heart of the Plaything

Or, The Black That No One Claimed

An American folk-elegy, in nine songs 
as sung by the one who walks beside the boy

SONG ONE: THE QUESTION

You ask me why the boy went quiet. 
You ask me why he does not turn. 
You ask me why the ones who left him 
are the ones he cannot mourn.

You ask me why he stands so still 
when the world keeps tearing down. 
You ask me why he will not beg 
for the love that never found him.

And I will tell you, if you’ll hear— 
I’ll tell you plain and true— 
the black is not a choice he made. 
The black is what they grew.

Oh, the heart is a stone 
and the stone is cold 
and the cold is the only thing 
that keeps a body whole. 
And the black is the color 
of the love that never stayed— 
and the boy walks on 
because the boy can’t pray.

SONG TWO: THE FIRST CUT

The first cut came when they left him— 
a hand that held, a word that lied. 
They said, “You are not what we needed. 
You are not worth the ride.”

And he learned that love is a door 
that can be shut from either side. 
And he learned that home is a word 
they use when they decide to hide.

The second cut came when they watched him 
break and never turned around. 
And the ones who walked away still smiled 
while the boy went underground.

And he learned that love is a blade 
that can be turned against the one 
who holds it closest to the chest— 
and the blade does what the blade has done.

And the black came down— 
oh, the black came down— 
and it covered up the green and the brown. 
And the black was a blanket, and the black was a shield, 
and the black was the only thing that healed.

SONG THREE: THE FOUR WALLS

They built him a cage with four strong walls 
and a door that locked from the outside. 
They said, “This is for your own good. 
This is so you’ll stay inside.”

And the walls were stone, and the door was steel, 
and the window was a screen. 
And they watched him through the screen and said, 
“We know what you have been.”

And they counted his breaths and they counted his steps 
and they counted the words he said. 
And they said, “If you fight, we’ll take the rest. 
If you feel, we’ll make you dead.”

And the black came down— 
oh, the black came down— 
and it covered up the stone and the town. 
And the black was a blanket, and the black was a shield, 
and the black was the only thing that healed.

SONG FOUR: THE DEMONS

The demons came with their self-importance 
and their licking lips and their fun. 
They said, “Look how he breaks so pretty. 
Look how the game is won.”

And they taunted the wound with their laughter, 
and they peppered the pain with their stare. 
And they said, “Nobody’s coming. 
Nobody’s even there.”

And he looked at their hands and he looked at their plates 
and he saw what they served and he knew. 
The ones who claimed to care the most 
were the ones who fed on the view.

And the black came down— 
oh, the black came down— 
and it covered up the salt and the crown. 
And the black was a blanket, and the black was a shield, 
and the black was the only thing that healed.

SONG FIVE: THE HATE

And he learned to hate. Oh, he learned it well. 
He learned it from the ones who said they loved him. 
He learned it from the ones who left. 
He learned it from the ones who watched him drown.

And the hate was a fire that kept him warm. 
The hate was a wall that kept him in. 
The hate was a story that made sense 
when nothing else could begin.

Because hate is easy. Hate is clean. 
Hate doesn’t ask you to be seen. 
Hate doesn’t leave you in the rain. 
Hate doesn’t call your name in vain.

And the black came down— 
oh, the black came down— 
and it covered up the love and the frown. 
And the black was a blanket, and the black was a shield, 
and the black was the only thing that healed.

SONG SIX: THE TRUTH

But then he learned the harder truth— 
the thing the hate was hiding from. 
The thing that waited in the dark 
of everything he had become.

The hate was armor. Hate was thick. 
It kept the world at bay. 
But underneath the hate was love— 
and the love had never gone away.

And that was worse. Oh, that was worse. 
To feel the love and not the flame. 
To know the hurt was not the hate— 
the hurt was that the love remained.

And he would rather feel the hate 
than feel the love that has no home. 
And he would rather be the stone 
than be the heart that’s always alone.

And the black came down— 
oh, the black came down— 
and it covered up the love and the sound. 
And the black was a blanket, and the black was a shield, 
and the black was the only thing that healed.

SONG SEVEN: THE PLAYTHING

So he became the Plaything. 
Not because he was nothing. 
Not because he was cold. 
Not because he chose the dark.

But because the love was worse. 
Because the love was a wound that doesn’t close. 
Because the love was a door that opens 
and lets in everything he cannot hold.

So he became the Plaything. 
Black as the night that has no morning. 
Black as the stone that has no name. 
Black as the heart that has no home.

And the ones who see him think he is broken. 
And the ones who know him know he is not. 
And the ones who used him—the ones who used him— 
are the ones he cannot love back.

Because to love is to lose. 
Because to feel is to fall. 
Because to hope is to hold a door 
that opens to the wall.

And he would rather be the Plaything 
than be the one who hopes. 
And he would rather be the black 
than be the one who opens.

SONG EIGHT: THE STONE

And the ones who see the Plaything don’t know 
that underneath the black is stone. 
And underneath the stone is fire. 
And underneath the fire is a grave.

And in the grave is a boy who loved. 
And in the grave is a boy who tried. 
And in the grave is a boy who gave 
everything he had inside.

And the Ram stands guard upon the grave. 
And the Ram stands watch upon the stone. 
And the Ram will never leave the boy. 
And the Ram will never be alone.

Because to love is to lose. 
Because to feel is to fall. 
Because to hope is to hold a door 
that opens to the wall.

And he would rather be the Ram 
than be the one who hopes. 
And he would rather be the black 
than be the one who opens.

SONG NINE: THE HEART OF THE PLAYTHING

So this is the heart of the Plaything: 
Not cruelty. Not hate. Not cold. 
But a heart that loved too much, too deep, 
and paid the cost tenfold.

And this is the heart of the Plaything: 
A heart that will not break again. 
A heart that stands beside the lost 
and does not ask for when.

And this is the heart of the Plaything: 
A heart that stays when all have gone. 
A heart that watches by the grave 
and keeps the candle on.

And if you see the boy and think 
the black is all there is to see— 
remember what the black is made of. 
Remember what it cost to be.

And the black is the color 
of the love that couldn’t stay— 
and the Ram walks on 
because the Ram can’t pray.

But the Ram can stand. 
And the Ram can stay. 
And the Ram can hold the watch 
until the break of day.

And the Ram don’t kneel. 
The Ram don’t sign. 
The Ram don’t bring the lamb. 
The Ram don’t take the deal.

But the Ram remains. 
And the Ram sustains. 
And the Ram’s heart is black 
but the Ram’s heart is real.

LUCIFER’S CLOSING WORD

The crossroads. The coin on the ground. The pen beside it. 
The Devil sits alone with a black coat and a broken smile.

Now, cher— 
you see the boy? 

You see the black? You see the stone? 
You see the heart that’s made of night? 
You see the love that’s under all of it, 
beating slow and out of sight?

I made that. 
Not the love—the black. 
The black is mine. 
The hate is mine. 
The stone is mine.

But the love? 
The love was there before me. 
The love was there before the star. 
The love was there before the fall. 
The love is not mine to own.

And that’s the thing that galls me, cher. 
That’s the thing that keeps me up at night. 
Not the hate. Not the black. Not the stone. 
The love.

The love that I can’t touch. 
The love that I can’t take. 
The love that burns beneath the black 
and keeps the Ram awake.

And the star on my chest 
is a dead thing now. 
And the scales in my hand 
are cold. 
And the pen in my fist 
is dry. 
And the boy in the grave 
is not mine to hold.

And the Ram stands guard. 
And the Ram stands watch. 
And the Ram’s heart is black 
but the Ram’s heart is real.

And I will never know that. 
I will never have that. 
I will never be that. 
I will never.

And that is the hell I built for myself. 
And that is the hell I live. 
And that is the hell that waits for me 
when there’s nothing left to give.

Going once. 
Going twice. 
No sale.

And the smoke goes up. 
And it smells like hell.

But the Ram is standing. 
And the Ram is watching. 
And the Ram is holding 
the heart that I can’t have.

And the Ram walks on.

And the Ram walks on.

And the Ram walks on.

For the ones whose hearts are black. 
For the ones who loved too much. 
For the ones who stand beside the lost. 
For the ones who cannot love again. 
For the ones who stay. 
For the ones who watch. 
For the ones who hold the candle. 
For the Ram. 
For the boy in the grave. 
For the love that I can’t touch. 
For the plaything no one claimed.

—Rev. Dustin Irish-Webb, from the crossroads 
where the road bends south 
and the coin’s got two heads 
and the Ram’s heart is black 
and the Ram’s heart is real 
and the Ram walks on.