My heart is hurt again.
Not by the carelessness of another,
but by the dashed hope of a longed for desire.
The sheer emptiness of the longing
overcomes everything in its movement towards it's fulfillment.
At first it was the undue length of its colourless duration
that pierced the freshness of every new morning.
Now as the sun sets,
so it turns melancholy.
Moaning out into it's formless void
made evenmore despairing by the false appearance of fleeting substance.
Like a sliver of moonlight held down by a spiderthread was it's presence.
And now it lingers only like a pale elephantine shadow,
yet to be fulfilled.
An empty promise that always was,
yet never quite is.
A quiver of the heart of insignificant size,
yet unbearable presence.
This my heart feels.
This my heart still wants.
Such a tiny thing that sits so still,
but moves so much!
Why must I bear a burden that is so impossibly unbearable?
Why do I still passionately pray for its fulfillment?
and Dumb actions
compound the difficulty of mustering this battle with chivalrous charm.
Impossibility becoming improbability.
Improbability becoming an all too familiar bedfellow.
An all too despised acquaintance.
An open disposition becomes clouded.
Clouded by confusion and dull pains of a pang
echoing violently off empty walls,
in an empty space.
A space where admirably ignorant hope
still believes someone will stand.
(I wrote this poem before I met my wife. I had had my heart broken and thought the end of the world had come. Little did I know that my heart had to be broken to allow someone new into my life, someone that stayed forever!)