The Broken Heart
My soul yearns for something more,
Specifically what, I cannot tell.
It whispers something in my ear,
A silent prayer, a curse, a spell.
Inside I want to scream it out,
The spell though, my mouth controls.
The natural curse on the broken hearted,
Simple communication from it withholds.
My spirit is as a dried up lake,
Each emotion getting weaker by the minute.
My tears, as solid rocks they fall,
They know not real from gimmick.
How much sorrow can one bare?
How much turmoil and travail?
The broken heart has it’s curse to handle,
Distraction though, now prevails.
Copyright © Christian Eliab Ratnam 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED