•--~--•
Isn't it elegiac,
How being broken
gives even the most delicate china,
A fatal edge.
I wonder,
If I have too become
A sharp, hurtful shard
Of a broken heart.
Once overflowing with mirth and hope,
Now only with blood.
Some my own, some of those I loved.
But perhaps, if love knocks my door again
I will let her in,
And she'll melt me back to whole.
•--~--•
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Cottage Chronicles
PoetryLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
