In every rejection
In every missed call
In every promise not kept
In every lonely night he's had spent by himself
replaying events in head over and over and over

there is opportunity

Light does exist, despite its scarce amounts

He coughs
then spits out a combination of blood,
dirt and naive optimism
while closing his eyes
and fantasizes of how things "once were"

How? he wonders

How can something as delicate as a heart
remain intact  
if it's being continuously attacked by it's environment?
How can one soul maintain
its divinity in the midst
of so much lies and anguish?

He buries his face in his weathered hands one last time
wipes away any residual frustration from his eyes
and continues onward