The Speared Heart

The heart is like a beating orb
Plump with Life's emotion
But human sounds from jaded lips
Infuse a deadly potion.

Like a lance, a deed can kill,
Spearing every vision,
And leaves the heart to beat no more,
Slain, with such precision.

The speared heart pulses not,
It dwells in cold subsistence-
And pumps with stiff rigidity
Which suits its feigned existence…

But like the sap within a tree
Life's blood begins to flow
And brings sweet essence to the heart
Once battered blow by blow…

The speared heart, though slightly torn
Rallies round its bruises
And starts to beat with hope once more-
And all because it chooses…

Sharon Frye