Secret Heart

Oh love, oh loss, oh life, these are staples of existence in a never-ending strife. To work until our bones ache and spirit drain. And afterward, we are told, ‘what have you to complain?’ To embrace our cherished one for as long as we can, ignoring the truth that slips like grains from our hand. Some leave us as we leave others, their haunting memories be cursed, be damned, be gentle on our emotions, though not always as we planned.

 

We seek acceptance in family and friend, acceptance it seems that can never amend. It can never amend our feelings of isolation and grief, of troubled mind, of failures, and those who mistreat. Soon it comes, callous hearts dulled and dyed by static of place and time, cluttered in thought…in though, I guess, of mine.

 

The next day will be true. This time it’ll matter. Nothing will stop us from tuning out all the vulgar chatter. I know what needs to be gathered, I’ve seen the way, though it’s not clear, not nearly as clear as it was yesterday. And so I pick up the sharp bits, pretending as I do, it’s easy if you don’t think you’ll change too.

 

The loss I do abhor, yet on goes a smile when exiting the door. Love, as it’s drawn, unravels like bundles of sticks, worn bricks, and baskets of yarn. Altogether a few pleasant moments we need, to share, to care, to listen to ourselves, to take heed. Waste not with those who scar, in blinding misery bring desolation and heartache even from afar, for their love is treacherous in name, acting as if it’s the same, yet words are hollow if there is no deed, and if there is no deed, then unlatch your unnecessary burdens and become, finally freed.

 

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  • #1

    ventricular failure (Tuesday, 26 December 2017 06:14)

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