Hephaestus himself has made me serrate.

He thrusts my tempered heart into the fire --
A just victim of cold, hot, steely, hate
Whose passion is encased in chilled desire.
A vengeful goddess’s machinations
As she creates a beatific new beau.
Molded from clay, but ends like Adonis.
What else can the heart’s fickle sponsor throw?
But Love and her Blacksmith meekly gave up
When War appeared to rear his charming head.
And if a destined duo can break up,
What chance does that leave for poor me, instead?
Even if love’s just mercurial, hot
I would rather have that than lone death's rot.