Oh heart, how aches thee,
How writhes thee in all thy sadness
Within thy iv'ry cage!
The corpse of thine existence
Is the keeper not
Of thy sole sanity and disillusionment-
Morose in its reasons, the heart cries
The only lies of truth it dares to believe,
And still denying all hope the crimson potion provides,
It trembles with wrenching fear
That clasps it in its grip.
Sweet kisses of sorrow
Seal that fate of mine -
Somber in its own -
They ensnare the object in its fragility,
The heart, vitality of life,
Within the confines of desire.
Grievous thing thou art, oh heart!
A piteous slave to thine own longings,
Creator of thine own insecurities and blindness.
Nothing can be done
To rid thee of thy mis'ry.
Awake, oh heart, dear dreadful heart, and appease thy weary master;
Make light this heavy load!
Ceasing not to falter, flail -
It fights against its stronghold;
Against its will it is
Weak with anguish,
Immersed in fiery fury and bitter melancholic passion.
Forgetting always that life is yet to live
And that deception lies not only in death,
The heart, a foolish creature of nature,
Lingers in its rejection;
Anticipation mounts, and still
The heart sinks back into its resting place.
Cannot the heart thrive
While it dies to itself?
Cannot it move on
Despite the struggles?
Take heed, oh heart!
Thy painful pining will fade with time,
And, as does the sun,
Love will arise again another morn.