The heart strives to drive one mad
for it is inhabited with warmth.
A warmth that consists of wildflowers of peace, trees of hope,
and the dew of those dear beloved.
Even if the dew fades,
it'll stain and sink into the heart.
Dragging the heart into a bed of soil,
where sunlight does not shine,
where it is bitter and cold,
for it is a barren wasteland,
where nothing grows.
Yet, the warmth of those dear beloved
fuel the cold nights of holding tight.
It'll burn and burn,
fuelling what one had.
YOU ARE READING
collection of poems and short stories
PoetryPoems and short stories that I've written throughout my study of literature and writing. Hopefully you'll be able to see the progression of my craft. References to literature and artist are spread throughout the prose.
