Wednesday, December 5, 2012

To the Heart

A man whose formed by many pairs of hands
Never knows whose hands to slake, whose demands
To surrender to with abandonment
Of heart and soul; he withdraws to the tent
Of his mind and contemplates affections
That affected him so strongly outside
The tent of his soul that they were likened
To a hurricane, bent on destroying
His mortal frame with many bending winds
Of pointless direction. The surging tides
Of a man's heart may be fickle that
He becomes enamored of the whole world,
And as easily becomes indifferent;
Even so, a man who sows so as to
Win for himself the whole wide world of men
Woes the day that he accomplishes his
Feat of feats, since at it's end he has not
A single formed conviction but a mass
Of melted butter that is his heart. All
His principles have gone by the way
Of siding with a side rather than a
Form that forms a side; like a man who picks
From his meal only the side and leaves the
Main course that was his own to be looted
By so many pairs of hands. Thus is man
Perplexed and confused in his discernment
Of the heart and soul, the mind is a tent
That is ripped asunder from within, and
Many woes that could have been avoided
Become a reality that woes man's heart.

To the Heart, (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012

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