When A Heart Cries 1

From when I was little I was different,

Though I didn’t know it at the time.

When I was little I didn’t think why––

I just was. I was attracted to broken things.

Broken hearts and souls and lives.

I wanted to touch them, understand them.

I felt their pain. Like how when you

See a butterfly with a torn wing

You feel its tornness somewhere

Deep inside the colors of your spirit.

But how do you sew back together

The ripped edges of a butterfly’s wing?

So fragile, like snowflakes.

What thread do you use, what needle

For those delicate wounds?

Or the tattered wings of a human soul––

With what do you mend such a tear?

There is no needle and thread

For a broken heart. I never understood––

When I tried to stitch it back together,

It only bled more. Red. Ruby.

Crimson. Carmine. Tears of blood.

Like raindrops on a spring rose

In the dreary light of early morning.

When a heart cries, or a soul,

How do you comfort it?