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THE BROKEN HEART

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You don’t understand. A broken heart

Is not a metaphor. The person

With a broken heart

Cannot love anymore.

A broken heart lies hidden away.

Love’s invisible. Love cannot be seen

By a doctor’s chart.

Love could be polite, or want to play

In the occurrences of every day.

Love might keep one up at night,

Because fear and hope are love.

Blue is blue and green is green.

A broken hand is a broken hand.

But a broken heart cannot be seen.

This is important to understand:

The person with a broken heart

Sleeps. And cannot love anymore.

The broken heart becomes a rapist,

The broken heart becomes a whore.

The broken heart is real,

But can’t be measured. What we feel

Is more important than what we think.

Love cannot be felt

By the broken heart. When you knelt

And prayed in the vestibule

She laughed behind your back.

He’s a rapist. None can measure

The rapacity of the whore,

The horror of the heart which cannot love anymore.

It’s hard to see who doesn’t love anymore.

This is what the rapist seeks, not innocence,

Not love. The rapist seeks the whore.

The rapist does not seek the fool

Praying in the vestibule.

Rape is bold, because the broken heart,

Deeply hidden, which loves no more,

Is what the rapist searches for.

The word is “searches,” not “pleasure.” The modesty

Of the heart which has not been broken

Cannot be detected by what is spoken,

Cannot be seen by what you wear.

The broken heart isn’t here or there

Except in the secret behavior of the whore

Who appears normal, but can’t love anymore.

The urgency of the rapist is to find the whore

And ravish her once, and then no more.

The rapist seeks the broken heart

Which lies. And lies away from every chart.

A broken heart is not a broken hand.

A broken heart is worse.

Subtle. And not. Do you understand?

 

 

 


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