Bleeding Hearts
A dagger stuck, twisted and skewed,
since the day I found out you’d been untrue.
Cold, sharp, pain flows from out the wound,
another scar not visible to the naked eye,
but still imprinted, branded here forever.
I’m not the only one, as different faces rush
through the streets in the busy mornings each day,
a gentleman sits alone at the bar, a young woman
reads in a coffee shop all trying to forget whatever
might have ailed them, to discard those hurtful
words, lies, and memories, of something once
pure, true, and real. The best friends come and gone
lost by deceit, betrayal, the family that never really cared,
or loved us, the years of mental and physical abuse,
or family just no longer here. Another broken heart,
that even as times passes, still seeps and aches
a little each day; how fragile the heart is indeed.
Broken, like champagne glasses falling out
of the freight, torn and tattered into two like an old,
discarded rug; and maybe the pain subsides, fades
long enough, quits temporarily, for a moment,
but our bleeding hearts will bleed and bleed until we
pass on. I know tonight mine still bleeds for you.
Copyright © James Hanson | Year Posted 2005
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