Hearts, not cast from hardened bone,
Yet their cracks resound, a mournful tone,
In the depths of sorrow's grip,
Where pain numbs, its bitter grip.
Love, they whisper, a cure-all,
A balm for heartache's lasting thrall,
But mine devoured, with ruthless might,
Tearing my heart from within, in endless night.
Oh, my love so dear,
If not made of bones, crystal clear,
Why does mine shatter, I beseech,
In fragments, this ache does breach?
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Eunoia
PoesíaA soul of a writer, a poet, an artist never dies they are immortal cause they carry a magic of ink splattered on paper. ♡♡♡ Somewhere deep there lies the raging ocean of emotions beneath us, So maybe tracing do...
