Heart —
hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.
It starts with a pit —
a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —
where does a heart take root?
Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.
They said,
“_the great tree fell_.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 12:13 PM UTC
Heart —
hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.
It starts with a pit —
a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —
where does a heart take root?
Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.
They said,
“_the great tree fell_.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?
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