Even if you burn my heart
until there's nothing left but ashes,
I'd still adore the flames
that ignite us for eternity.

The storm in my heart
never ceases to calm
as it rages on;
despite my feigned disdain for you.

It strikes,
shattering my soul into more pieces,
making it harder to gather them all
or to keep count.

Sometimes,
I foolishly attempt to construct something,
anything;

Out of the awry, worn heart
which once only beat for you;
just to fail miserably.

But it is as though
in this moment,
everything seems to go still.

The winds come to an end,
leaving a soft zephyr in its place.

I close my eyes
as the once wrathful storm
that overtook my soul
quiets down,
the noises hushing with it.

The sun at its zenith,
high above, away from all the chaos
I yearn to leave behind.

All that could be heard now,
was the echoes of the blazing thunder
blurred into the faded hums of a lullaby
I once cherished.

What path in this warren of life,
made you go from affection
in everything you said,
to disdain in your nostalgic eyes?

The promises we uttered,
expecting to keep them for eternity and after;
now dissolved in the acid of your treachery.

Was it just me who had that intention
of never leaving until the end of time
or, were they merely just a game of your deceit?

The mirage of your trust and insistence
of partly carrying my burdens,
as I did for you,
now reduced to ashes
from which an ember lowly emits in its wake.

The very envisage of us being,
that would hush me too a deep repose
on sleepless nights;
now keeping me up until dawn.

Perhaps,
it was my fault
for expecting so much.

For assuming you were
the one friend I'd needed,
in this deep, hollow concept of living.

I suppose what I'm better off with
is a barren version
of the shallow expectations concerning
human existence.

Often times, I reckon,
what would be of us
if we hadn't strayed apart to divergent voyages.

It is as though,
due to the circumstances uncalled
or our fraying nexus of connection,
we just weren't meant to be.

The inept waves of loneliness felt
are but a sign we are human;

Weaving shattered pieces of misery together
in hopes of being perceived
as complete again;

Apprehension clouding the mortal ideas
we call emotions.

And just like how
wisteria bloom and flourish
in the unbeknownst shadows of spring,
your once befooled heart
shall also find it's way.

Mankind is a mosaic
of everything they have done in their existence;
insignificant if the pieces cease
to fit against each other,
all intertwined into one melancholic,
woe-filled work of art.

Is poetry like rubbing salt on already open wounds,
or is it what heals them?

Is it the cure to the poison present in our soul,
or is it, instead, the bane of what we feel?

what if in lieu,

poetry is what keeps mankind alive
through words once unsaid and unwritten.

It carries on our prophecy
and alleviates the vague suffering
present in the deep pit of our insufferable, mortal minds.

Poetry,
is the way our soul inevitably bleeds.