Sometimes a heart

simply wears thin,

the muscle becomes tissue

paper, translucent,

 

and the wind

and the rain

threaten to tear it,

but as long as its color

holds permanent,

 

the heart

will mend

itself

again.

 

It is the heart that darkens

that is a critical matter,

its pigment abrasively stripped

from harsh despair;

 

it becomes ugly and overpassed,

judged and seen as an outcast

until it believes in the masses

and caves into itself at last.

But even the most charred heart

can grow back its color,

and though love is the way,

it is not through the kiss of another.

 

Only the withered bloom itself

can ignite the reverse process

with self-love,

 

and if but one beholder

can convince it of its beauty,

that heart with its scars

is the one that grows into the greatest

 

love story.

 

Every heart is worthy.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise