This oddly wrought thing
Considered “heart”:
i.e., the human
heart.
Obtuse in love,
Its true angles
Juxtaposed towards
Four warmly-lit chambers.
Placid leaflets
Beat with velvet cadence,
Pouring forth particles
Burned of former days.
Yet, it takes up so little
Room, perched within
This chitinous cage,
The prongs of which
Knowingly exhale, now and then.
And there are no flawlessly
Drawn curves, nor perfectly
Poised cut-outs, a propos
The ‘real thing’.
Still, the feel of it
At certain times,
Is enough to spin kindly
Smiles upon the silent
Sands of time…
This odd-shaped thing
We call our heart,
Summons blank verse
Only to add its own
Emblem, etched by tides
Of grief and joy:
It surprises us
Into tears when
We very least expect it.
(and that is
why I’ve saved the key)...
Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point...
Copyright 2-14-2013 Lisa Porter-Grenn
No comments:
Post a Comment