pain

metaphorically the heart bleeds
it cracks
shatters into a hundred shimmering bits
glinting off the floor.

what is the heart when not dedicated
but lone, cold and grey
in spring time as the nightingale sings
perhaps the heart will glow again.

rose red
dusted with dew
green sprouts of youth
let us blossom together.

come winter
wither and freeze
to die, to sleep, to dream
lie dormant and awake to the summer breeze.

it comes in waves
seasons as it is
spread out too thin
wasting away.