A broken heart will never be whole.
It may be
patched, not healed as told.
The shards are
swept to dark reaches of the soul.
A thousand years hence, the agony is not old.
The shards of broken hearts will cut you then
As surely they
did as it happened when.
The agony does
not fade though you pretend.
The bleeding never stops until the very end.
When words are inadequate, the music flows.
A heart may
bloom again, a delicate rose.
But the thorns
multiply, an uncertain pose.
Broken hearts never heal - the broken-hearted knows.
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