The heart is a fickle being,
With a mind of its own where thoughts run as do still waters.
The heart plots and schemes its own merry devices
To inundate its barren ridges with nourishment and mirth.
The heart looks for joy and comfort
It looks for her peace of being; when the ways of the world tire her out and all she needs is a little solace.
Perhaps my heart is one such as this;
Fickle as a fleeting butterfly.
Scraping into the abyss of a caterpillar when it finds a rock solid castle to hold on
And transforming when the pillar of rock crumbles into little grains of sand.
My heart overflows with love and joy and care and happiness
And if you can take my love with arms outstretched then please do the hate and the anger and the bitterness too if you so decree.
My heart is a chasm of warmth that will engulf and consume and stir up emotions
It is also a fragile being, wrapped in velvet and ensconced in a glass vial for safekeeping and respite.
It is constant for fleeting moments and monogamous as it should be.
But the heart heals its own wounds and when it dies a little inside, the remaining parts conspire a threshold to move it forth and find a new flower to feast on.
To devour and consume and hurt and cause malice.
But the heart is truly a receptacle of us.
A mirror that shows the surface yet reveals the facade within
Capable of shouldering more than it ought to;
Fighting and striving relentlessly and pursuing its course passionately.
