Broken
This broken heart,
In sorrow beats,
in soulless measured time.
A harp without a harpist,
a poem without a rhyme.
futility in hollow words,
now permeates the void,
and resonates in nothingness,
the sound of hope destroyed.
From archived reels of memories,
minds data banks rewind,
replaying silent movies,
on screens within the mind.
Favourite haunts and playful taunts,
now close the eyes with pain,
each strobe light flickered image,
freeze frames the past again.
Rip from this heart and throw away,
the root of such despair,
pluck from this bruised and wounded heart,
this deeply buried tare.
Allow this broken thing that pounds,
Its pain in sorrows den,
to beat again in rhythms of love,
in agonies of time.
Copyright © David Wallace | Year Posted 2011
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