Dé Luain, Lúnasa 29, 2005

Sometimes the Heart Cries…

The howling whirl wind with hurricane force
Drives me from all that which should be mine
Once thought sacrosanct, my very thought
Has turned to memory and even now seems like
Someone else’s story, from someone else’s time

The mind cannot be trusted to know black from white
So with animal instinct the mind is discarded
Trust moving like a misfit from organ to organ
Lost it seems, if only for a moment
Confusion is king here and his mistress is the heart

A mistress cold and warm, filled with grief and love
She finds comfort in the solace of knowledge
Knowledge not of books and the minds philosophy
But in the intent of purpose, the stoicalness of freedom
What the heart knows can only be known through confusion

Confusion comes now in the form of emotion
The mind speaks in words, but the heart in action
Through anger the heart bleeds
Through love the heart rejoices
Through emotion the heart is moved to more than ideal

And sometimes the heart cries
Through pain and lament the heart is changed
And this mistress takes on the gown of the widow
Clothed in black she hides away her crumbling form
And speaks to no one, but with tears


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