A Murder of Heart

They say you cannot die of a broken heart,
that love and promises are an illusion of art - 
But what do they know? For they never felt
the extent of the pain, or the depth of the welt
that keeps me alive but tears me apart.

Pray! tell me, how to make them understand
how it felt to have my palm in your hand;
how it felt to cradle your love in my chest
how it felt to press you a kiss and rest
my fingers upon you, and leave a brand - 

And how deeply it hurts now that I am alone;
how despondent I feel, straight through the bone
like a plunging sword which didn't matter
until it was my heart that shattered.
(You see, my love was never a loan,

But he thought so, it seems, he didn't realize;
I loved him through heart, and he through eyes.
His gaze found another, of blonder hair
and declared to me that she was far more fair - 
and deserted our love, ignoring my cries.)

And so my heart still weeps, and always will
Until it stops, and comes to a still.
That shall be today, I have come to decide - 
whoever said broken hearts don't kill, lied
Because I am awaiting on my window sill
for Death to come, and take His fill.

The End

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