Heart: a tendril?

If my heart were simple,
wild and timeless as sky
it would not have scars of destiny.

If my heart were lone,
as a tree on a foothill;
it would not be blackmailed by
rusty human slogans.

And if it were impervious,
as igneous rock,
it would not be intoxicated with ism
and man-made barriers.

That is not the heart
of mine.
It is a tendril of passions
trudging headlong to impasse,
without an outlet of ease.