Hearts

This poem is dedicated to a friend who has recently had their heart broken.

Hearts are chunks of perfect beauty we all carry within us. These little sparks are proof positive of a blissful joy beyond understanding. So powerful it trancends our earthly senses and points to a metaphyscial reality that rings true in our souls. Though unseen, we do catch glimpeses of it's effects in our lives.

Like a new born baby, young hearts have a pure glow to them you can actually smell. They exude syrupyness without leaving that sickly sweet sting on your tongue. A naive innocence so absolute we pass laws to make destroying such a wonderous thing the most heinous crime.

But hearts are made to be broken. Like any good thing they must come to an end. Fixing a broken heart is a dirty job to be sure. It can seem impossibly daunting when you see the countless twisted shards strewn across the floor like shrapnel. Your hands are sure to get bloody with the sharp edges of raw emotions cutting into your fingers. You'll suffer setbacks of missing pieces. Even when you finally finish the puzzle and the pieces back together you'll see veins running through a once clear and seamless surface like cancerous fingers gripping your heart and refusing to let go.

Here is the part where so many of us go wrong. In the name of safety and a misled effort to avoid the same tragedy again we lock our heart away in a dungeon. Caged up like a criminal, as if to say it was at fault. Too open, too accepting, too trusting. Instead what we should do is cast open the doors and let the light shine through us.

Sure it won't shine the same. But that simple shimmer is replaced by a full spectrum of hues and brightness. Those white veins turn into twisiting pillars of light. Tiny inflections in them make the light dance in new and wonderous ways.

Hearts are made to be broken.