The heart is fine art
The heart is fine art.
A complex body part.
One that beats along roads with a spear part.
Through this body part all things are felt.
This is the vital organ to the body of the world.
From it, sweet notes unfurl.
Curled into the sweaty palms of a lover.
A new beating hope under a dust cover.
Hoping not to rediscover past pain.
The loving heart trying to keep our brain sain.
Fighting every strain.
A universal heart dashing through the rain with a sprain.
Determined with out a Cain.
Spread all through the world turkey,england, Spain.
A loving heart broken and fixed, again and again.
Leaving behind stains irritable to the brain.
Still hope runs thorough the worlds vains.
As this heart to the worldly body is slain.
A steady heart beat is regained.
Fueling the world to sustain balance.
Sustain the remains,but still it slips on blood stains.
Washed away soon by golden rain.
Oh what a strain for a heart that never shown disdain.
Yet from its beating notes one has never heard complain.
Beating down road of love dodging acid rain.
Finding shelter and spreading loving heart beats in every domain.
A heart we fail to entertain but still love again and again.
How can we explain our disdain.
That seems to soar the earth on a fast lane.
Treating the heart of our bodily world so inhumane,
negligence and pain is the stifling gas main to the hearts bane.
What folly and madness conquers the lands of earth,
the art of a hearts worth.
Copyright © Elliott Bowe THe DrUnKeN POeT | Year Posted 2012