Inconsequential

Who am I, what am I cries the heart?
A glass half empty or half full?
One moment, a feeling of good measure,
the next, inconsequential?

How does love continue to love,
when its worth feels torn to tatters,
when the heart it feels acceptance, care,
the next day, it no longer matters.

Is to feel more about one alone,
or to feel more about also another?
Is to live life more of love, concern
for friend, for stranger, lover?

Is a heart only for some temporal gain,
just an instrument, a useful tool?
One moment, a thing of purpose,
the next, inconsequential.

by (c) Colorofsky

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