Inability

The heart is. no doubt, big, strong, as much as enough to pump life into the entire body,
but it is neither powerful or spacious, enough, to endure it
It is fragile, tender, like anything else, in the confrontation of this existence, once it hits the self;
perhaps for that, those who have “big hearts” die early, with a bug in it
as they open it more than it’s prepared to host.

*(*

Do not know whether it was an affectionateness from the mother nature, or cruelty what it was
that it did not make the heart completely in the middle of the chest, leaning to one of its sides it made it;
so if the sorrow brutalizes the heart, it paralyzes half of the body, Instead of splitting it into two halves.

*)*

And what hurts the most in this letting down/life;
that even your heart, who was your first talker during the prenatal blindness
If one day, you tiredly asked it to stop pulsing, lets you down.

*(*

It happens sometimes that changes its place, the heart, to attract attention
as if becomes a festering pimple in the most scandalous point of face topography,
a half paralysis in the body
or even a cactus thorn in the inner side of your right eyelid, whenever it flutters, makes you bleeding

Evergreen Heart is raining in the fall,
shivering in the winter,
snowing in the spring,
freezing in summer,
and sweating warmly in the losing season,

a Myrtus plant is what it is, the heart,
leafs from the daily dew, which eyes pour it, in front of each tombstone,
thirsts from the weekly dew, which eyes pour it. in front of each tombstone,
shrivels up from the monthly dew, which eyes pour it, in front of each tombstone,
solidifies from the yearly dew, which eyes pour it, in front of each tombstone,
and be crashed 
when eyes are bored of watering the tombstones and be convinced that who’s gone underground never comes back. 

 

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