To be a poet

 

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.