What happens when you break the heart of a poet?

Morsels of silver lined soul 
flesh perfect to devour
a potential to level up
pain brings with it a new lens
endurance, resilience, and just enough fear
to keep one brave

Poets are creatures, chimeras really
we can envision worlds
in picoseconds
and comprehend balance
sadness renders, not in the capacity
one would contemplate
knots tied together
utterly severed
in lieu of knots
the ends frayed
there was no communion
or reconciliation
simply thin strands
that could never really
be mended

Souls are so special
when one is intentionally maimed
intent is questions, indecision
offers nothing of solace

The creature of the hour you may
ask? Why, it’s crickets of course.

The most MASSIVE kiss of death
one that marinated on thoughts
of consequence

Silence is the TRUEST kiss of death
the Venetian Masque silently weeps
boredom ensues — reality
a puzzle piece that once fit
broken and bruised
barely able to fit

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