A Curious Thing, this Thing called Heart.

Here within my heart a disturbance.

And in my head a voice that gently whispers

of things yet to be spoken, of feelings yet discovered.

My heart is a fragile thing,

tender and sheltered behind walls that have been

built brick by brick, with hands that were unkind.

You could break thru those walls, I think,

but how will we ever know?

The lines between you and I are drawn,

but the artist had shaky hands

and the lines twisted off into patterns

that fail to be understood.

There the last of my resolve stands;

with hopeful eyes and arms full with soft child.

A question lingers on the air...

what do you see when you look

at me?