Someone once sang
'What becomes
of the broken hearted?'
Well, they become poets,
traversing distant stars
uncharted. They seek answers
in the murmur of the wind,
they search for meaning
in the multitude grains of sand.
They investigate the places
most fear to navigate.
They do this unguided,
with no map or compass,
just a notepad and
a search for purpose.
The lonely hearted
scrutinise every memory,
like a photograph display
of every day they have lived,
trying to piece together
moments they may have missed,
or relive that special kiss,
now frozen in time,
a statue of when life was bliss.
They inspect and probe,
they prod at every morsel
of thought that dares to move,
like a toddler pushing
their food around their plate.
Trying in vain to satiate the need to know
what will come on days to follow.
Will the heart still feel hollow?
Or will the sun shine down
and light a new pathway
over the gravel?
What then,
becomes of the
broken hearted?
When the brittle shards
have worn so thin,
that no superglue or sticky tape
can put them together again?
They too seek in the rain,
for answers to why they weep
when their tear ducts
are just sandy deserts of misery.
They explore the pain,
searching high and low
to see where it began,
and where the hope did go.
Then they take out their notepad
and start to let the words flow,
to show themselves that
brighter days will follow.
