The cumulutive effect,
of wanton neglect,
Is a hole where a heart should be.
I speak from experience,
in all its variants,
And that’s exactly what happened to me.
And even if one is pure,
There still is no known cure,
No hope in this world to be redeemed.
This cruel, unholy defect,
That only angels can detect,
Is so much colder than at first I dreamed.
A heartless parents’ inheritance?
A lifetime in soulless penitence?
That’s exactly what has befallen me.
If you doubt that I am sure,
That I am empty at my core,
Just place your hand where my heartbeat should be.
And you will see.
And you will feel.
Nothing!
© M.H.
Marc's poetry and musings 