False Feelings of A Broken Heart

I wrote this just a few days ago as a means to express what I felt in-the-moment. I think it worked out reasonably well.

From the greatest joy to the deepest sorrow
my heart has lept
and so I sleep
until tomorrow.

And yet, I, the man of words do know
that sleep brings no peace
nor time does heal
my wounds.

Done yet, under the best intentions
flutter by
two birds dancing amongst the flowers,
yet become dust.

These are the words of a young old man,
stricken down as if to teach
him a lesson he will not learn:

That the bounds of his heart
are saved within his friends
and no place for forsworn lovers.

For, if in his true old age find
that the young of the fairest of the fairer sex
do confess betwixt themselves of
games of wit and trickery, it is they who
have no grace which bids them breath.
Flowers wilt,
and the buds die on their branches.

For the heart of Man is tender as silk,
not made of the works of the forge,
and when torn,
and resewn,
torn,
and resewn,
torn,
and resewn,
one must ask of this young old man,
how much silk does he have left?

But a thread.

The End

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