Hearts Within Sight

The heart is like unfinished poetry,
Beating with worlds and features of flesh,
Stinging our minds without messages,
Like the horizon as it blooms and trees
Are seen in the distance for the sun to shine.
My heart is yours, and your heart is mine,
Little are the pious sights, little golden objects
Portray a sculpture, but the nearer sight
Encapsulates the whole of time and thought
Throughout all being.

The heart shall go on bloating like a godly relic,
Feeding a frenzy of blood and bones,
Deceiving never never, and stimulating others
Into a gap which is without pure justice
But with ranks of stone and elegance,
The stones of right are within sight.
The penmanship has started and waited,
For the worker of writing has spoken in his way
Through the tongue of the heart -
A most zealous object of the inferno.

by Naveed Akram

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