I have a back, but I cannot stand. I hold heavy weight, but have no hands. I hold stories of history, fiction, and crime, Just standing against the wall all of the time.

Cold-hearted sculptor, shaping with transparent elegance, I crack under pressure and melt in warmth.

There’s never enough of me in your closet.

I have crowned heroes, Decorated generals, Sold illusions, And clarified lies. Some chase me their entire lives. Some earn me for a job well done. Some print me beside conditions they hope you'll ignore. Yet every morning, One of my kind rises without applause. What am I?

Temperature and storms make me common small talk, indoors I am controlled, outdoors I may turn violent. This or that, one choice or another, sometimes the decision rests on a whim.