The hurting heart does not decide
which piercing pain lights their life,
does not contend, but sits and pretends
by doing barely more than living
even though they are seriously struggling,
they are surely winning this sixth early inning.
Till, thinning scabs and fetid breath
gives way to blooming fresh rosy flesh.

The spiral rises to brighter skies
then begins to weave and descend
returning the burning heart
to familiar shadows, of snow
cold groves.