The Whole Hearted
You, the whole-hearted, who catch easy breaths
at night, on your side, with fantasy fluttering your eyes.
You, the possessed, the easily taken, easily joined,
with the outer extremities of emotion, so easily adorned.
You, the callous, indifferent sort, unruffled by the fallen
souls at your feet nor the threatening storm.
I, who doesn’t breathe the easy sigh, whose dreams bring no
wanted relief, who cannot feel the overing from rupturing ardor to
parting malady, envy greatly the obdurateness you display.
Do you, you whole-hearted, see the propriety in your emaciation
of the uncut heart? When I, the half-hearted, the defected, labor
for its completeness.