An elegy for the brokenhearted

What is so difficult about living

that I only see withering bodies

claiming to seek compassion

claiming to look for love

but folding even at the idea of an act,

a deed, a gesture, a word

any true expression of emotion

What is so fearsome about living

that wilted lovers roam the earth

alone and yet hiding beneath

lies, betrayal, murmurs of distrust

accusing feeble hearts of machinations

complaining of circumstances

playing fiddle with lust

Oh rest in peace my brokenhearted

the world hasn’t done much for us

they may talk about it, but all they do

is anything but love

anything but love


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