Paper Heart
I have a paper heart;
it was made with special care
Crafted from a forge,
where a child’s dreams are stored
It was growing from a garden,
were fairytales are pardoned
Were magic is discounted,
to those adults not tax deducted
It was found by chance on an ashen street
Where it was trampled upon by broken feet
A lonely passenger thrown down to malaise
To a sophist whims down a public orphanage
I picked it up, and felt the belly of flame
Which smudge and grim could not drain
Brushed its bruises, and gave its rips kisses
No wounds could impair its ivory strings
On a screaming city street,
I was deaf to joy’s delight
Amid onslaught of the engines, roar
I smiled in a vacuum store
Among friezes of steel faces,
I turned inside a little aria
For in my palm glory sang,
in a little square, of ivory mead
Walking with a purpose towards my sardine palace
Through the pavilion of harlequins on open display
I was burning through the winter with a tropical ticket
That was perched in my pocket to my private highway
The journey on this day was forwarded with reward
Aloof to the rotten smiles which recoil my brittle cord
For I was swept upon a stream, in a bed of waking thoughts
By influence of a cotton reed, a tiny manufactured seed
Nothing is elusive pass its special contents
Light as a feather, it’s weight is greater than gold
From the legend of San Lorenz down the sands of Timbuktu
For true fortune is a crop, that is unintentionally dropped
With expert circumspection it was tested for refitting
I stitched it with a resin wise to those with broken hearts
Who have dug deep inside the bottom of miseries endless trenches
With a formula called compassion that expunges all battlefields
Folded and remodel it became a maestros child
That I chaperoned as a ward to life’s imperfect grand design
[...] Read more
poem by Kevin Patrick
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