Just behind
the tarnished brass heart,
on a shelf of mortal sins of man,
lies a charred soul,
not burned
beyond all recognition.
Imbedded in itÂ
are chards of glass,
strewn upon
the path of a wasted life,
of a human being.
It lingersÂ
in the loveless dark,
remembering a series of events
of what it used
to be like to be human,
in the romantic world so genuine.
Discontented, contemptible,
darkened by choices
made in haste
by blind ignorance,
or hatred of self.
A place where love
once grew,
nurtured by tenderness,
gained by hope of life,
when love left,Â
so did faith in the world.
Timothy Michael DiVito c2020
