Growing up: Less Imagination, More

Like a bird, any bird: a pigeon maybe.
Or like a volcano, as cold as coins; as
warm as lava. Yes, that is my heart.
It changes, changes the way a swan
does, at first--a swan, then a girl. It's
fairytale, but who said my heart
isn't? Who, aegis-like, as if a cargo
around their mind, think of the heart as
else? A steadiness, a throbbing
(Here, feel it)?
There's only this much truth,
this much imagination. Take what's left
of the latter, given chance, when chance
give it, gave: with hands in air as though
saying, Here, take some.