Her young heart was torn
For wondrous things,
On what she gets
And what she brings,
On what fills her
To the strands of her hair,
On what empties her,
Till she's got nothing to bare
Her poor heart was torn
For marvelous things,
On what she could spill
And drink once again,
On what she could offer
To the whims of the night,
On what she must keep
Finely bathed in the light
Her naive heart was torn
For these lovely things,
Will she sing what she loves
Or love what she sings?
Yet these wondrous things
Were as torn as she is,
For she was too hard to love,
But too much to miss
YOU ARE READING
Depth of Me •••#Wattys2018•••
Poetry"I'll write for what was left within the ashes; for the depth of me when all else is gone." cover drawing by: Carolina Roda
