I feel that the journey of a broken heart
contains many fissures of truth;
none of which are visible apart
from the subject of it’s contentment.
That which is ever changing.
A heart lives a journey of growth,
of pain, a little discomfort,
but mostly a cyclical pattern of troth.
I fell in love in a moment.
And how can I betray that which lies within?
The soft pitter-patter of living hope,
As we explore that which is herein.